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THE POETICAL WORKS 



JOHN KEATS. 







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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



JOHN KEATS. 



WITH A MEMOIR 



BY RICHAKD MONCKTON MILNES. 



ELEGANT .> ILLUSTRATED. 




PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & CO. 

1855. 






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CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

MEMOIR, 17 

ENDYMION: A Poetic Komance, .... 57 

LAMIA, ........ 185 

ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL : A Story, frjm Boccaccio, 208 
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES, . . -^ . .228 

HYPERION, 243 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Dedication to Leigh Hunt, Esq., ..... 272 

"I Stood Tiptoe upon a Little Hill," .... 273 

Specimen of an Induction to a Poem, .... 280 

Calidore: A Fragment, ..... 282 

To some Ladies, on receiving a curious Shell, . . . 288 

On receiving a Copy of Verses from the same Ladies, . 289 

To , 291 

To Hope, ....... 293 

Imilation of Spenser, ...... 295 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 



"Woman! When I behold thee, Flippant, Vain/' . . 296 
Ode to a Nightingale, . . . • • .297 

Ode on a Grecian Urn, ..... HOO 

Ode to Psjehe, ....... 302 

Fancy, ....... 304 

Ode, 307 

To Autumn, ....... 308 

Ode on Melancholy, ...... 309 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern, . . . . 311 

Robin Hood, ....... 312 

Sleep and Poetry, . . . . . . 314 

Stanzas, ........ 327 

EPISTLES. 

To George Felton Mathew, ..... 328 

To my Brother George, . . . . . .331 

To Charles Cowden Clarke, ..... 335 

SONNETS. 

To a Friend who sent me some Roses, .... 340 

To my Brother George, . . . . . 340 

To , 341 

"0 Solitude 1 If I must with thee Dwell," ... 341 

"How many Bards gild the Lapses of Time," . . . 342 

To G. A W., 342 

Written on the Day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison, . . 343 

To my Brother, ...... «44 



CONTENTS. 



I'AGE 



Addressed to Haydon, ...••• •^^'^ 

The same, ..... 345 

On first looking into Chapman's Homer, . . . .345 

On Leaving some Friends at an Early Hour, . . . 34G 

" Keen Fitful Gusts are Whispering Here and There," . . 346 

" To One who has been Long in City Pent," ... 347 
On the Grasshopper and Cricket, .... 

To Kosciusko, ...... 348 

"Happy is England! I could be content," . • • 348 

The Human Seasons, ....«• ^"^^ 

On a Picture of Leander, ...••■ 349 

To Ailsa Rock, 350 



347 -/ 



MEMOI]l OP JOHN KEATS. 



RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. 



The " Life, Letters, and Literary Eemains of Joliii 
Keats," published in 1848, contain the biography of the 
Poet, mainly conveyed in the language of his own cor- 
respondence. The Editor had little more to do than to 
arrange and connect the letters freely supplied to him 
by kinsmen and friends, and leave them to tell as sad, 
and, at the same time, as ennobling a tale of life as ever 
engaged the pen of poetic fiction. But these volumes 
can scarcely be in the hands of all to whose hours of 
study or enjoyment the Poems of Keats may find ready 
access; and thus it has been desired that the Editor 
should transcribe into a few pages the characteristics of 
an existence in itself so short, but radiant with genius 
and rich in virtue. 

The publication of three small volumes of verse, some 
earnest friendships, one profound passion, and a prema- 
ture death, are the main incidents here to be recorded — 
ordinary indeed, and common to many men whose 
names have passed, and are passing, away, and here only 



18 MEMOIROFJOHN KEATS. 

notable, as illustrating the wonderful nature and progress 
of certain mental faculties, and as exhibiting a character 
which inspires the deepest human sympathy amidst all 
its demands on our admiration. 

John Keats was born on the 29th of October, 1795, 
in the upper rank of the middle class, his mother pos- 
sessing sufficient means to give her children an excellent 
education, when left a widow in 1804. She is reputed 
to have been a woman of saturnine demeanor, but on 
an occasion of illness, John, then a child between four 
and five years old, remained for hours as a sentinel at 
her door, with a drawn sword, that she might not be 
disturbed : and at her death, which occurred when he 
was at Mr. Clarke's school at Enfield, he hid himself for 
several days in a nook under the master's desk, passion- 
ately inconsolable — traits of disposition that illustrate 
his character as a boy, energetic, ardent, and popular. 
"He combined," writes one of his schoolfellows, "a 
terrier-like resoluteness with the most noble placability;" 
and another mentions that his singular animation and 
ability in all exercises of skill and courage, impressed 
them with a conviction of his future greatness, "but 
rather in a military or some such active sphere of life, 
than in the peaceful arena of literature."* This impres- 
sion was assisted by the rare vivacity of his countenance 
and much beauty of feature ; his eyes were large and 
sensitive, flashing with strong emotion or suffused with 
tender sympathies ; his hair hung in thick brown ringlets 
round a head diminutive for the breadth of the shoulders 

* Mr. E. Holmes, author of the " Life of Mozart," &c. 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 19 

below, while tlie smallness of the lower limbs, which in 
later life marred the proportion of his person, was not 
then apparent, an}^ more than the undue prominence of 
the lower lip, which afterwards gave his face too pug- 
nacious a character to be entirely pleasing, but at that 
time only completed such an image as the ancients had 
of Achilles, — of joyous and glorious youth everlastingly 
striving. 

Careless of an ordinary school-reputation, his zeal for 
the studies themselves led him frequently to spend his 
holidays over Virgil or Fenelon, and when his master 
forced him into the open air for his health, he would be 
found walking with a book in his hand. The scholar- 
ship of the establishment had no peculiar pretensions, 
and the boy's learning was limited to the elements of a 
liberal education. He was never taught Greek, and he 
took his mythology from Tooke's Pantheon and Lem- 
priere's Dictionary, making the affiliation of his mind 
with the old Hellenic world the more marvellous and 
interesting. It is doubtful whether at any time his 
information exceeded these scanty limits, and it is a 
curious speculation whether deeper and more regular 
classical studies would have checked or encouraged the 
natural consanguinity, so to say, of his fancy with the 
ideal life of ancient Greece, and whether a more distinct 
knowledge of what the old mythology really meant, 
would, or would not, have hindered that reconstruction 

of forms 

" Not yet dead, 
But in old marbles ever beautiful," 



20 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

wliicli is now not the less agreeable from being the 
evolution of his unlearned and unaided imagination. 

Mr. Charles Cowden Clarke, the son of his preceptor, 
remained the friend of Keats, when removed from school 
in 1810, and apprenticed for five years to a surgeon of 
some eminence at Edmonton. This intelligent compa- 
nion supplied him with books, which he eagerly perused, 
but so little expectation was formed of the direction in 
which his talents lay, that when in 1812, he asked for 
the loan of Spenser's Fairy Queen, Mr. Clarke remem- 
bers that the family were amused at the ambitious desires 
of their former pupil. He must indeed have known 
something of Shakspeare, for he had told a schoolfellow 
that "he thought no one would dare to read Macbeth 
alone at two o'clock in the morning;" but it was Spen- 
ser that struck the secret spring and opened the flood- 
gates of his fancy. " He ramped through the scenes of 
romance," writes Mr. Clarke, "like a young horse turned 
into a spring meadow:" he could talk of nothing else: 
his countenance would light up at each rich expression, 
and his strong frame would tremble with emotion as 
he read. The lines "in imitation of Spenser" are the 
earliest known verses of his composition, and to the very 
last the traces of this main impulse of his poetic life are 
visible. But few memorials remain of his other studies : 
there is a "Sonnet to Byron," of little merit, dated 1814; 
one of much grace and juvenile conceit on Chaucer's 
Tale of the "Flower and the Leaf," written on the 
blank leaf, while his friend was asleep over the book ; 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 



21 



and one of most clear tliouglit and noble diction, "On 
first looking into Chapman's Homer." It was to Mr. 
Clarke again that he owed his introduction to this fine 
interpretation, which preserves so much of the heroic 
simplicity, and the metre of which, after all various at- 
tempts, including that of the hexameter, still appears 
the best adapted, from its length and its powers, to 
represent in English the Greek epic verse. Unable to 
read the original, Keats had long stood by Homer as a 
great dumb name, and now he read it all night long, with 
intense delight, even shouting aloud, when some especial 
passage struck his imagination. 

The "Epistles" to his friends and his brother George, 
then a clerk in London, indicate a rapid development of 
the poetic faculty, especially free from the formalism 
and imitation which encumber the early writings even 
of distinguished poets, and full of an easy gaiety, which 
at times runs into conversational commonplace, or helps 
itself out of difficulties by quaintnesses that look like 
aftectations. But, even in these first efibrts, the pecu- 
liarity of making the rhymes to rest on the most pic- 
turesque and varied words, instead of the conventional 
resonance of unimportant syllables, is distinctive, and 
an eftect is produced which from its very novelty often 
mars the force and beauty of the expression, and lowers 
the sense of poetic harmony into an ingenious concur- 
rence of sounds. It is also a palpable consequence of 
this mode of composition, that the sense appears too 



22 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

often made for tlie rhyme, and, while most poets would 
be loth to allow how frequently the necessity of the 
rhyme suggests the corresponding thought, here the 
uncommon prominence of the rhyme keeps this effect 
constantly before the reader. Yet, when approached 
with sympathetic feeling and good will, this impression 
soon vanishes before the astonishing affluence of thought 
and imagination, which at once explains and excuses 
the defect, if it be one. Picture after picture seems to 
rise before the poet's eye in a succession so rapid as to 
embarrass judgment and limit choice, and fancies and 
expressions that elsewhere would be strange and far- 
fetched are here felt to have been the first suggested. 

"When Keats's apprenticeship was over and he re- 
moved to London to " walk the hospitals," he soon 
became acquainted with men capable of appreciating 
and cultivating his genius. Among the foremost Leigh 
Hunt welcomed him with a sympathy that ripened into 
friendship, and the sonnet "On the day Leigh Hunt 
left Prison," attests the earnestness of reciprocal affec- 
tion. They read and walked much together, and wrote 
in competition on subjects proposed. Much has been 
said of the influence of this connection on the writings 
of Keats, and much of their mannerism has been traced 
to this source. The justice of this supposition is more 
than doubtful, and the stupid malevolence of the criti- 
cisms which mainly sustained it is now too well exposed 
to require refutation. It is indeed probable that the 
fresh mind of Keats was directed by Hunt into many of 



I 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 23 

the channels which had delighted his own, and that 
peculiarities that had taken the fancy of the one were 
easily pressed on the imagination of the other. But 
Keats always defended himself energetically against the 
notion that he belonged to Leigh Hunt's or any other 
school. "I refused," he wrote, "to visit Shelley, that I 
might have my own unfettered scope," and he never 
ceased to desire to hear all the defects of his own ori- 
ginality. It is no contradiction to this to infer, that if 
the talents of Keats had been subjected to the discipline 
of a complete and regular classical education, and a self- 
distrust inculcated by the continual presence of the 
highest original models of thought and form, he would 
have escaped very much of the mannerism which accom- 
panied his early eftbrts ; but it may be doubted whether 
the well-trained plant would have thrown out such luxu- 
rious shoots and expanded into such rare and delightful 
foliage. The most that can be said of the influence of 
Leigh Hunt and his friends on Keats was that he became 
obnoxious to those evils which inevitably beset every 
literary coterie^ that he learned rather to encourage than 
to restrain individual peculiarities, and to demand a 
public and permanent attention for matters that could 
only justly claim a private and personal interest. But 
on the other hand it is impossible to deny that in this 
genial atmosphere the faculty of the young poet ripened 
with incredible facility, and advantages of literary cul- 
ture were afforded which no just critic can disparage or 
conceal. Chatterton eating out his heart in his desolate 



21 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

lodging and ignoble service to low magazines, or Burns 
drinking doAvn tliouglit in country taverns and town 
society little more refined, aflPord mournful contrasts to 
the pleasant and elevating associations enjoyed by Keats 
during his residence in London, which, he would have 
been the last to undervalue. Hazlitt, Haydon, Godwin, 
Basil Montague and his remarkable family, and many 
other persons of literary and artistic reputation received 
him with kindness ; Mr. Reynolds, whose poems written 
under feigned names are full of merit, Mr. Dilke, whose 
intelligent criticism, large information, and manly sense, 
have had so beneficial an effect on the modern history 
of English letters, Archdeacon Bailey, and Severn, the 
poetical painter, became his devoted friends : while in 
Mr. Oilier, himself a poet, and afterwards in Messrs. 
Taylor and Hessey, he found considerate and liberal pub- 
lishers. 

It soon became apparent that the profession for which 
young Keats was destined was too unsuitable to be main- 
tained. There remain careful annotations on the lectures 
he attended, but when he had once entered on the prac- 
tical part of his business, although successful in all his 
operations, he found his mind so oppressed with an over- 
wrought apprehension of doing harm, that he determined 
on abandoning the course of life to which he had devoted 
a considerable portion of his small fortune. " My 
dexterity," he said, "used to seem to me a miracle, and 
I resolved never to take up a surgical instrument again." 
The little volume of poems, the beloved first-born, 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 25 

scarcely touched the public attention : it was not even 
observed as a sign of the existence of a new cockney 
poet, whom the critic was bound to silence or to convert, 
or as the production of a new member of the revolu- 
tionary propaganda, to be hunted down with ridicule 
or obloquy. These honors were reserved for maturer 
labors. The characteristic lines, 

" Glory and loveliness liave passed away," &c., 

were "wi'itten in the midst of a merry circle of friends, 
who happened to be present when the printer sent to 
say that if there was to be a dedication he must send it 
directly ; and he did so, — for the main thought, the 
regeneration of the images of Pagan beauty, was ever 
present with him. His health at this time was far from 
good, and in the spring of 1817, he returned to the quiet 
of the Isle of Wight to write "Endymion," a subject 
long germinating in his fancy, and thus shadowed out 
in the first poem of his early volume : — 

" He was a poet, sure a lover too, 
Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew 
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below ; 
And brought, in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow, 
A hymn from Dian's temple ; while upswelling. 
The incense rose to her own starry dwelling. 
But tho' her face was clear as infants' eyes, 
Tho' she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice, 
The poet wept at her so piteous fate, 
Wept that such beauty should be desolate : 
So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, 
And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion." 



26 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

The solitude was not very propitious to his work, but 
lie composed some other good verses, such as the sonnet 
"On the Sea," and others illlustrative of his thoughts 
and feelings at the time. In a letter to Haydon he thus 
expressed himself with a noble humility: "I must think 
that difficulties nerve the spirit of a man ; they make 
our prime objects a refuge as well as a passion ; the 
trumpet of Fame is as a tower of strength, the ambi- 
tious bloweth it, and is safe." * * * " There is no 
greater sin, after the seven deadly, than to flatter oneself 
into the idea of being a great poet, or one of those 
beings who are privileged to wear out their lives in the 
pursuit of honor. How comfortable a thing it is to feel 
that such a crime must bring its heavy penalty, that if 
one be a self-deluder, accounts must be balanced." 
Again to Hunt : "I have asked myself so often why I 
should be a Poet more than other men, seeing how 
great a thing it is, how great things are to be gained by 
it, that at last the idea has grown so monstrously beyond 
my seeming power of attainment, that the other day I 
nearly consented with myself to drop into a Phaethon. 
Yet 'tis a disgrace to fail even in a huge attempt, and 
at this moment I drive the thought from me. I began 
my poem about a fortnight since, and have done some 
every day, except travelling ones." 

In September he visited his friend Bailey, at Oxford, 
and wrote thence as follows : — " Believe me, my dear 

, it is a great happiness to me that you are, in this 

finest part of the year, winning a little enjoyment from 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 



27 



the hard world. In truth, the great Elements we know 
of, are no mean comforters : the open sky sits upon our 
senses like a sapphire crown ; the air is our robe of 
state ; the earth is our throne ; and the sea a mighty 
minstrel playing before it— able, like David's harp, to 
make such a one as you forget almost the tempest-cares 
of life. *****! shall ever feel grateful to you 
for having made known to me so real a fellow as Bailey. 
He delights me in the selfish, and, please God, the dis- 
interested part of my disposition. If the old Poets have 
any pleasure in looking down at the enjoyers of their 
works, their eyes must bend with double satisfaction 
upon him. I sit as at a feast when he is over them, and 
pray that if, after my death, any of my labors should be 
worth saving, they may have as ' honest a chronicler' as 
Bailey. Out of this, his enthusiasm in his own pursuit 
and for all good things is of an exalted kind, worthy a 
more healthful frame and an untorn spirit. He must 
have happy years to come; 'he shall not die — by 
God.'"* 

Some later extracts from letters to this excellent 
friend are interesting ; they were part of the occupation 
of the winter of 1817-18, which Keats passed at Hamp- 
stead among his friends, perhaps the happiest period of 

* In p. 62 of the " Life and Letters of Keats," the biographer spoke of the 
decease of Mr. Bailey : he had been erroneously informed as to that event, 
but he regrets to add that the newspapers, within the last few weeks, record 
the death of Archdeacon Bailey, lately returned from Ceylon, where he had 
long resided. 



28 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

his life. — " I have heard Hunt say, 'Why endeavor after 
a long poem V to \yhich I should answer, ' Do not the 
lovers of poetry like to have a little region to wander 
in, where they may pick and choose, and in which the 
images are so numerous that many are forgotten and 
found new in a second reading, — which may be food for 
a week's stroll in the summer. * * * Besides, a 
long poem is a test of Invention, which I take to be the 
polar-star of poetry, as Fancy is the sails, and Imagina- 
tion the rudder. Did our great Poets ever write short 
pieces ? I mean, in the shape of tales. This same 
Invention seems indeed of late years to have been for- 
gotten as a poetical excellence.' But enough of this, I 
put on no laurels till I shall have finished Endymion." 

" One thing has pressed upon me lately and increased 
my humility and capability of submission, and that is 
this truth : men of genius are great as certain ethereal 
chemicals operating on the mass of neutral intellect, 
but they have not any individuality, any determined 
character. I would call the top and head of those who 
have a proper self. Men of Power." * * * * * "I 
wish I was as certain of the end of all your troubles as 
that of your momentary start about the authenticity of 
the Imagination. I am certain of nothing but of the 
holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of Ima- 
gination. "What the Imagination seizes as Beauty must 
be Truth, whether it existed before or not ; — for I have 
the same idea of all our passions as of Love ; they are 
all, in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty. The 



1 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 29 

Imagination may be compared to Adam's dream: he 
awoke and found it Truth. I am more zealous in this 
afFair, because I have never yet been able to perceive 
how anything can be known for Truth by consecutive 
reasoning, and yet it must be so. Can it be that even 
the greatest philosopher ever arrived at his goal without 
putting aside numerous objections? However it may 
be, O for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts ! 
It is 'a vision in the form of youth,'— a shadow of 
reality to come, — and this consideration has further 
convinced me,— for it has come as auxiliary to another 
speculation of mine, — that we shall enjoy ourselves 
hereafter by having what we call happiness on earth 
repeated in a finer tone. And yet such a fate can only 
befall those who delight in Sensation, rather than 
hunger, as you do, after Truth. Adam's dream will do 
here, and seems to be a conviction that Imagination 
and its empyreal reflection is the same as human life 
and its spiritual repetition. But, as I was saying, the 
simple imaginative mind may have its rewards in the 
repetition of its own silent working coming continually 
on the spirit with a fine suddenness. To compare great 
things with small, have you never, by being surprised 
with an old melody, in a delicious place, by a delicious 
voice, felt over again your very speculations and sur- 
mises at the time it first operated on your soul ? Do 
you not remember forming to yourself the singer's 
face — more beautiful than it was possible, and yet, with 
the elevation of the moment, you did not think so? 



30 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

Even then you were mounted on tlie wings of Imagi- 
nation, so high that the j)rototype must he hereafter: 
that dehcious face you will see. — Sure this cannot he 
exactly the case with a complex mind — one that is 
imaginative and, at the same time, careful of its fruits, — 
who would exist partly on sensation, partly on thought, 
— to whom it is necessary that ' years should bring the 
philosophic mind ?' Such an one I consider yours, and 
therefore it is necessary to your eternal happiness that 
you not only drink this old wine of Heaven, which I 
shall call the redigestion of our most ethereal musings 
on earth, hut also increase in knowledge, and know all 
things." 

This self-drawn picture of the mind, or rather the 
temperament, of Keats, might well inspire painful re- 
flections. If this were a completely true representation, 
it is evident that those sensuous appetites, and that 
yearning for enjoyment which has made his poetry the 
wail and remonstrance of a disinherited Paganism, must 
ere long have worn away all manliness of character and 
degenerated into a peevish sentimentalism. But he was 
preserved from this destiny by the strong presence of 
counteracting qualities,— unselfish benevolence, a sturdy 
love of right, and that main security and test of moral 
earnestness, a deep sense of honor. In this spirit he 
wrote about the same time to his brothers — after assert- 
ing that works of genius are the finest things in this 
world — " ISTo ! for that sort of probity and disinterested- 
ness which such men as Bailey possess does hold and 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 31 

grasp the tip-top of any spiritual honors that can be paid 
to anything in this world. And, moreover, having this 
feeling at this present come over me in its full force, I 
sat down to write to you with a grateful heart, in that I 
had not a brother who did not feel and credit me for a 
deeper feeling and devotion for his uprightness, than for 
any marks of genius, however splendid." 

"With a great work on hand, and in improved health, 
he seems at this time to have enjoyed himself thoroughly. 
His bodily vigor must have been considerable, for he 
signalized himself one day by giving a severe drubbing 
to a butcher whom he caught beating a little bo^ to the 
enthusiastic admiration of a crowd of bystanders. His 
society was much sought after, from the agreeable com- 
bination of earnestness and pleasantry, which distin- 
guished him both from graver and gayer men. The 
good and fine things he said gained much by his happy 
transitions of manner. His habitual gentleness gave 
effect to his occasional bursts of indignation, and at the 
mention of oppression or wrong, or at any calumny 
against those he loved, he rose into grave manliness at 
once and seemed like a tall man. On one occasion when 
a falsehood respecting the young artist Severn was re- 
peated and dwelt upon, he left the room, saying, " he 
should be ashamed to sit with men who could utter and 
believe such things." Another time, hearing of some 
base conduct, he exclaimed, " Is there no human dust- 
hole into which we can sweep such fellows?" He used 
to complain of the usual character of conversation, and 



32 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

said, " K Lord Bacon were alive, and to make a remark 
in the present day in company, tlie conversation would 
stop on a sudden." 

To tlie production of Endymion, Keats added some 
cliarming compositions in a lighter style, such as the 
"Lines on the Mermaid Tavern," "Robin Hood," and 
" Fancy," showing a perfect mastery over the more 
ordinary and fluent rhythm. His sense of the poetic 
function evidently grew with his task. He wrote to Mr. 
Reynolds, " We hate Poetry that has a palpable design 
upon us, and, if we do not agree, seems to put its hand 
into i* breeches pocket. Poetry should be great and 
unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and 
does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its 
subject. How beautiful are the retired flowers ! How 
would they lose their beauty, were they to throng into 
the highway, crying out, ' Admire me, I am a violet ! 
Dote upon me, I am a primrose !' " 

Again, ^' When man has arrived at a certain ripeness 
of intellect, any one grand and spiritual passage serves 
him as a starting-post towards all 'the two-and-thirty 
palaces.' How happy is such a voyage of conception, 
what delicious diligent indolence ! A doze upon a sofa 
does not hinder it, and a nap upon clover engenders 
ethereal finger pointings ; the prattle of a child gives it 
wings, and the converse of middle age a strength to beat 
them ; a strain of music conducts to ' an odd angle of 
the Isle,' and when the leaves whisper, it 'puts a girdle 
round the earth.' jSTor will this sparing touch of noble 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 33 

books be any irreverence to tliese writers ; for, perhaps, 
the honors paid by man to man are trifles in comparison 
to the benefit done by great works to the ' spirit and 
pulse of good' by their mere passive existence. Memory 
should not be called knowledge. Many have original 
minds who do not think it : they are led away by cus- 
tom. Now it appears to me that almost any man may, 
like the spider, spin from his own inwards, his own airy 
citadel. The points of leaves and twigs on which the 
spider begins her work are few, and she fills the air Math 
a beautiful circuiting, Man should be content with as 
few points to tip with the fine web of his soul, and 
weave a tapestry empyrean — full of symbols for his 
spiritual eye, of softness for his spiritual touch, of space 
for his wandering, of distinctness for his luxury. But 
the minds of mortals are so different and bent on such 
diverse journeys, that it may at first appear impossible 
for any common taste and fellowship to exist between 
two or three, under those suppositions. It is however 
quite the contrary. Minds would lead each other in 
contrary directions, traverse each other in numberless 
points, and at last greet each other at the journey's end. 
An old man and a child would talk together, and the 
old man be led on his path, and the child left thinking. 
Man should not dispute or assert, but whisper results to 
his neighbor, and thus by every germ of spirit sucking 
the sap from mould ethereal, every human being might 
become great, and humanity, instead of being a wide 
heath of furze and briers, with here and there a remote 

3 



34 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

oak or pine, would become a grand democracy of forest- 
trees." 

A lady whose feminine aciiteness of perception is only 
equalled by the vigor of her understanding, thus de- 
scribes Keats as he appeared about this time at Hazlitt's 
lectures: — "His eyes were large and blue, his hair 
auburn ; he wore it divided down the centre, and it fell 
in rich masses on each side of his face ; his mouth was 
full and less intellectual than his other features. His 
countenance lives in my mind as one of singular beauty 
and brightness ; it had the expression as if he had been 
looking on some glorious sight. The shape of his face 
had not the squareness of a man's, but more like some 
women's faces I have seen — it was so wide over the fore- 
head and so small at the chin. He seemed in perfect 
health, and with life offering all things that were pre- 
cious to him." 

The increased ill-health of his brother Tom, and the 
determination of George to emigrate to America, cast 
much gloom over the completion of "Endymion," which 
was, however, dispersed by a pedestrian tour through 
Scotland, in the company of Mr. Brown, a retired mer- 
chant, who had been Keats's neighbor during the pre- 
ceding summer, and whose sympathetic and congenial 
disposition he had much enjoyed. Mr. Reynolds' ob- 
jection to a projected Preface provoked the following 
spirited remonstrance : — 

"I have not the slightest feeling of humility towards 
.the public or to anything in existence but the Eternal 



I 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 35 

Being, the Principle of Beauty, and the Memory of great 
Men. When I am writing for myself, for the mere sake 
of the moment's enjoyment, perhaps nature has its 
course with me ; but a Preface is written to the public 
— a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and 
which I cannot address without feelings of hostility. 
If I write a Preface in a supple or subdued style, it will 
not be in character with me as a public speaker. I 
would be subdued before my friends, and thank them 
for subduing me, but among multitudes of men I have 
no feel of stooping : I hate the idea of humility to them. 
I never wrote one single line of poetry with the least 
shadow of public thought. Forgive me for vexing you, 
and making a Trojan horse of such a trifle, both with 
respect to the matter in question, and myself; but it 
eases me to tell you : I could not live without the love 
of my friends ; I would jump down Etna for any great 
public good, but I hate a mawkish popularity." 

In a fine fragment too, written about this time, he 
spoke of 

" Bards who died content on pleasant sward, 
Leaving great verse unto a little clan. 
give me their old vigor, and unheard, 
Save of the quiet Primrose, and the span 

Of Heaven and few ears, 
Rounded by thee, my song should die away 

Content as theirs, 
BicJi in the simple worship of a day." 

And yet, after all, the Preface which did appear was in 
the main deprecatory and with no "undersong of disre- 



36 MEMOIR OF. TOHN KEATS. 

spect for the public;" and when the Poet looked back 
on his labor he found it " a feverish attempt rather than 
a deed accomplished." He said: "the imagination of a 
boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is 
healthy, but there is a space of life between, in which 
the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the 
way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted." 

Surely, there was much in this to disarm the violence 
of the criticism which was levelled at the Poem at its first 
birth into literary existence. The articles themselves, 
both in the "Quarterly" and in "Blackwood," were 
so superficial and coarse, so thoroughly uncritical, that, 
whatever sensations of disgust and anger they may 
have aroused at the time, there could hardly have been 
a question of their permanent influence on the mind 
and destiny of Keats, but for the belief of many of his 
friends that they inflicted on his susceptible nature a 
shock which he never recovered. This notion was con- 
firmed in public estimation by the well-known stanza of 
the eleventh canto of Don Juan ; concluding — 

" Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 
Should let itself be snuffed out by an article." 

It is perhaps bold to say in opposition to the testimony 
of many near and dear friends of Keats, that these effects 
had no existence, but it is certain they have been greatly 
exaggerated. The sublime curse hurled at the brutal 
critic in the " Adonais" of Shelley has its due place in 
that lofty elegy, but with such means as we have to judge 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 87 

from, with the letters and acts of Keats, immediately 
after the reviews appeared, before us, his feelings seem 
to have had much more of indignation and contempt 
in them than of wounded pride and mortified vanity. 
I should incline to believe that the little public interest 
which "Endymion" excited, and the growing sense of 
his own deficiencies, weighed far more on his mind than 
those shallow ribaldries, which Jeffrey's article in the 
Edinburgh Review, if it had appeared somewhat sooner, 
would have so completely counterbalanced. "Wlien told 
"to go back to his gallipots," just as Simon Peter might 
have been told to go back to his nets, and when reminded 
that "a starved apothecary was better than a starved 
poet," his inclination certainly was rather to call the 
satirist to account, "if he appears in squares and theatres 
where we might possibly meet," than to let the scoffing 
visibly affect his health and spirits. Indeed in a letter 
to his publisher, after thanking some writer who had 
vindicated him, he says : — 

" As for the rest, I begin to get a little acquainted 
with my own strength and weakness. Praise or blame 
has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of 
beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his 
own works. My own domestic criticism has given me 
pain without comparison beyond what ' Blackwood' or 
the ' Quarterly' could possibly inflict ; and also when I feel 
I am right, no external praise can give me such a glow 
as my own solitary reperception and ratification of what 
is fine. * * * I -will write independently. I have 



38 MEMOIR or JOHN KEATS. 

written independently ivithout judgment, I may write 
independently, and with judgment, hereafter. The genius 
of poetry must work out its own salvation in a man. 
It cannot be matured by law and precept, but by sensa- 
tion and watchfulness in itself. That which is creative 
must create itself. In 'Endymion' I leaped headlong 
into the sea, and thereby have become better acquainted 
with the soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks than 
if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly 
pipe, and taken tea, and comfortable advice." He also 
wrote to his brother: — "This is a mere matter of the 
moment. I think I shall be among the English poets 
after my death. Even as a matter of present interest, 
the attempt to crush me in the Quarterly has only brought 
me more into notice. * * It does me not the least 
harm in society to make me appear little and ridiculous. 
I know when a man is superior to me, and give him all 
due respect ; he will be the last' to laugh at me." And 
again on his birthday : — " The only thing that can ever 
affect me personally for more than one short passing day, 
is any doubt about my powers for poetry : I seldom have 
any; and I look with hope to the nighing time when I 
shall have none." 

After reading these passages it is difficult to see in 
what spirit more wise or manly an author could receive 
unseemly and insolent criticism. "When Lord Byron 
boasts that, after the article on his early poems, " instead 
of breaking a bloodvessel," he drank three bottles of 
claret and began an answer, "finding that there was 
nothing in it for which he could, lawfully, knock Jeffi'ey 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 



39 



on the head, in an honorable way," one is glad of the 
indignation that produced the "English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers," but the use which Keats made of 
the annoyance in elevating and purifying his self-judg- 
ment is surely far more estimable. The letters show 
that no morbid feelings prevented him from most 
heartily enjoying his Scotch tour, where the sublimities 
of nature met him for the first time. He went to the 
country of Burns as on a pilgrimage, and notwith- 
standing that he was shown the cottage of Kirk Alloway 
"by a mahogany-faced old jackass who knew Burns, 
and who ought to have been kicked for having spoken 
to him," he says, " one of the pleasantest means of 
annulling self is approaching such a shrine : we need 
not think of his miseiy — that is all gone, bad luck 
to it! I shall look upon it hereafter with unmixed 
pleasure, as I do on my Stratford-on-Avon day with 
Bailey." 

It gave some color to the belief of the mental injury 
inflicted on Keats by the reviewers, that after this time 
his spirits and health began to decline, and the short re- 
mainder of his life was exposed to continual troubles 
and anxieties. His brother Tom, whom he loved most 
devotedly, and who much resembled himself in tem- 
perament and appearance, died in the autumn, and shortly 
before this event he met the lady who inspired him with 
the profound passion which under other circumstances 
might have combined all his dreams of happiness, but 
which was destined to increase tenfold the bitterness of 



40 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 



his premature decay.* Up to tliis period he had been 
singularly shy of women's society, and frequently ex- 
pressed himself freely on the subject, as for instance : — 

"I am certain I have not a right feeling towards 
women ; at this moment I am striving to be just to them, 
but I cannot. It is because they fall so far beneath my 
boyish imagination ? When I was a schoolboy, I thought 
a fair woman a pure goddess ; my mind was a soft nest 
in which some one of them slept, though she knew it not. 
I thought them ethereal, above men. I find them 
perhaps equal — great by comparison is very small. * * 
When among men, I have no evil thoughts, no malice, 
no spleen ; I feel free to speak or to be silent. I can 
listen, and from every one I can learn. When I am 
among women, I have evil thoughts, malice, spleen ; I 
cannot speak or be silent ; I am full of suspicions, and 
therefore listen to nothing ; I am in a hurry to be gone. 
You must be charitable, and put all this perversity to my 
being disappointed since my boyhood." 

But now his time had come. At a house where he 
was very intimate, he met a cousin of the family, a lady 
of East Indian connections, who had there found an 
asylum from some domestic discomfort. He first heard 
much in her praise, which did not interest him, then 
something in her dispraise, which took his fancy. He 
wrote : " She is not a Cleopatra, but is, at least, a Char- 
mian : she has a rich Eastern look : she has fine eyes, and 

* 111 Keats's copy of Shakspeare, the words Poor Tom, in " King Lear," 
are pathetically underlined. 



i 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 41 

fine manners. When she comes into the room, she makes 
the same impression as the heauty of a leopardess. She 
is too fine and too conscious of herself to repulse any man 
who may address her : from habit she thinks that nothing 
particular. I always find myself more at ease with 
such a woman : the picture before me always gives 
me a life and animation, which I cannot possibly feel 
with anything inferior. I am, at such times, too much 
occupied in admiring to be awkward or in a tremble : 
I forget myself entirely, because I live in her." He then 
protests that he is not in love with her, but that she kept 
him awake one night, "as a tune of Mozart's might do." 
He "won't* cry to take the moon home with him in his 
pocket, nor fret to leave her behind him." And then 
reverting to his love to his brothers and sisters : " As a 
man of the world, I love the rich talk of a Charmian ; as 
an eternal being, I love the thought of you. I should 
like her to ruin me, and I should like you to save 
me." 

Residing in the house of his friend Mr. Brown, and in 
daily intercourse with this lady, the path of life would have 
lain out before him brightly indeed, had it not soon ap- 
peared that his circumstances were such as to render 
their union very difiicult, if not impossible. The radiant 
imagination' and the redundant heart now came into fierce 
conflict with poverty and disease. Hope was there, with 
Genius his everlasting sustainer, and Fear never ap- 
proached but as the companion of Necessity : but the 
intensity of passion helped to wear away a physical frame 



42 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

originally feeble, and lie might have lived longer if he 
had loved less. 

Several of the Tales and Odes, which are contained in 
the volume of miscellaneous poetry, had been written by 
this time: the "Pot of Basil" before his Highland tour, 
and the " Eve of St. Agnes," and the Odes "To Psyche" 
and " On Melancholy," in the winter; "Lamia" and the 
"Ode to Autumn" in the advancing year. In most of 
these the Spenserian influence is still strongly predomi- 
nant, augmented no doubt by the study of the Italian 
Poets, to which, during these months, Keats sedulously 
applied himself. The fragment of "Hyperion" which 
Lord Byron, with an exaggeration akin to his former 
depreciation, declared to " seem actually inspired by the 
Titans and as sublime as u^schylus," was written so 
sensibly under another inspiration as to be distasteful to 
its author. "I have given up Hyperion," he writes, 
" there were too many Miltonic inversions in it. Miltonic 
verse cannot be written but in an artful, or rather, artist's 
humor." In all these Poems, in their different styles, 
the progress in purity and grace of diction was manifest. 
The simplicity of language which had been inaugurated 
by Goldsmith and Cowper, formalized into a theory by 
Wordsworth, and by him and other writers both of the 
Lake and the London schools carried to extravagance, 
had been adapted by Keats to a class of subjects to which, 
according to literary taste and habit, it was especially 
inappropriate, and where it produced on many minds 
almost the sensation of a classical burlesque. Such of 



MEMOIR or JOHN KEATS. 43 

the Gods as liad spoken English up to this time had done 
so in formal and courtly language, and the familiarity of 
poetic diction which in any case was novel, here appeared 
extravagant. ITow that Endymion has taken its place as 
a great English Poem, and is in truth become a region 
of delight in which the youth of every generation finds 
" a week's stroll in the summer," we can hardly feel the 
force of those objections, which, if they had been tempe- 
rately urged by critics who in other matters recognized 
the genius of Keats, would have had due weight not only 
with the public but with the Poet himself But while 
he owed nothing to the sledge-hammer censure he had 
endured, his own refined judgment and enlarged know- 
ledge induced him to throw off, as puerilities and conceits, 
much that had before presented itself to his fancy as in- 
vention and simplicity, and to send out his noble thoughts 
and images so worthily arrayed, that if he had lived to 
maturity, he would probably have had less of peculiarity 
and mannerism than any other Poet of his time. 

An experiment of double authorship between Keats 
and his friend Brown was not equally successful : the 
tragedy of " Otho the Great" was thus written — Brown 
supplying the fable, characters, and dramatic conduct; 
Keats the diction and the verse. The two composers 
sat opposite. Brown sketching all the incidents of each 
scene, and Keats translating them into his rich and ready 
language. As a literary diversion the process may have 
been instructive and amusing, but a work of art thus 
created could be hardly worth the name. As the play 



H 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 



advanced, Keats tliought tlie events too melodramatic, 
and concluded the fifth act alone. The tragedy was 
oflered to, and accepted by, Elliston, Kean having ex- 
pressed a desire to act the principal part ; but it is un- 
likely that even his representation would have carried 
through a performance so unsuited for the stage. As a 
literary curiosity it remains interesting, and abounds 
with fine phrases and passages marred by the poverty of 
the construction. It is doubtful whether at this time 
Keats alone could have produced a much better play : 
he might have written a Midsummer Night's Dream, as 
Coleridge might have written a Hamlet, but in both 
the great human element would have been wanting, 
which Shakspeare combines with high philosophy or 
with fairy-land. 

George Keats paid a short visit to England in the 
early part of this year, and received his share of the 
property of the youngest brother. He probably repaid 
himself for moneys advanced for John's education or 
liabilities, and thus the share which John received was 
not above 200?. By this time little, if anji:hing, re- 
mained of John's original fortune, and it is deeply to be 
regretted that the more enterprising brother did not 
come to some direct understanding with the other, before 
he finally quitted England, as to John's future means of 
support. Keats's friends believed that George took with 
him some remnants of John's fortune to speculate with, 
but no proof of this remains on any of the letters on 
either side ; and, after John's death, when the legal ad- 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 45 

ministration of his effects showed that no debts were 
owing to the estate, George offered, without any obliga- 
tion, to do his utmost to discharge his brother's engage- 
ments. 

At the time when these embarrassments began to press 
most heavily on Keats, he returned one night late to 
Hampstead in a state of strange physical excitement, 
like violent intoxication: he told his friend he had 
been outside the stage-coach and received a severe chill, 
but added, "I don't feel it now." Getting into bed, he 
slightly coughed, and said, " That is blood — bring me the 
candle," and after gazing on the pillow, turning round 
with an expression of sudden and solemn calm, said, "I 
know the color of that blood, it is arterial blood — I cannot 
be deceived in that color ; that drop is my death-warrant. 
I must die." He was bled, fell asleep, and, after some 
weeks, apparently recovered. During his illness he told 
Mr. Brown, "If you would have me recover, flatter me 
with a hope of happiness when I shall be well ; for I am 
now so weak that I can be flattered into hope." When 
he said one day, " Look at my hand, it is that of a man 
of fifty," it was remembered that years before, Coleridge 
meeting Keats in a lane near Highgate, and shaking 
hands with him, had turned round to Mr. Hunt, and 
whispered, ' There is death in that hand.' " 

This illness seemed at the time not to be without its 
compensations : he wrote to Mr. Rice in Feb. (1820) : — 

"For six months before I was taken ill, I had not passed 
a tranquil day. Either that gloom overspread me or I 



46 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

was suffering under some passionate feeling, or, if I 
turned to versify, tliat acerbated the poison of either 
sensation. The beauties of nature had lost their power 
over me. How astonishingly (here I must premise that 
illness, as far as I can judge in so short a time, has re- 
lieved my mind of a load of deceptive thoughts and 
images, and makes me perceive things in a truer light), 
how astonishingly does the chance of leaving the w^orld 
impress a sense of its natural beauties upon us ! Like 
poor Falstaff, though I do not ' babble,' I think of green 
fields ; I muse with the greatest aftection on every flower 
I have known from my infancy ; their shapes and colors 
are as new to me as if I had just created them with a 
superhuman fancy. It is because they are connected 
with the most thoughtless and happiest moments of our 
lives. I have seen foreign flowers in hothouses, of the 
most beautiful nature, but I do not care a straw for them. 
The simple flowers of our Spring are what I want to see 
again." 

And he saw them — for towards the end of the spring his 
health was apparently so much better that the physician 
recommended another tour in Scotland. Mr. Brown, 
however thought him unfit for the exertion and went 
alone : the two friends parted in May and never met 
again. In the previous autumn Keats had removed to 
a lodging in "Westminster, when he was trying to make 
some money by contributing to periodical works, but 
soon found he had miscalculated his own powers of en- 
durance. She, whose name 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 47 

" Was ever on his lip 
But never on his tongue," 

exercised too mighty a restraint over his being for him 
to remain at a distance which was neither absence nor 
presence, and he soon returned to where at least he 
could rest his eyes on her habitation, and enjoy each 
chance opportunity of her society. After Mr. Brown's 
departure he seems to have been all but domesticated with 
her family for a short time, but with the sad consciousness 
of the absolute necessity of some great change of life to 
ward off absolute destitution. " My mind," he writes, 
" has been at work all over the world to find out what to 
do. I have my choice of three things, or, at least, two — 
South America, or surgeon to an Indiaman, which last, 
I think, will be my fate. I shall resolve in a few days." 
It was probably this pressure which forced him against 
his will to publish the volume of Tales and Poems, which 
seemed at last to move even the literary world to some 
consciousness of his merits. It had no great sale, but it 
was received respectfully, and, even without the catas- 
trophe that soon invested it with so solemn an interest, 
it would have gone far to establish him as a poet even in 
vulgar fame. During its completion he had spent much 
time on an Ariosto-like Poem, which he called the " Cap 
and Bells," exhibitinghisplay of fancy to great advantage, 
and getting away as it were, as far as possible, from the 
gross realities that occupied and tormented his existence. 
His main passion finds no place in his verse ; a few, and 
not eminent fragments betray the haunting thought, but 



48 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

the careful exclusion of the topic from his literature adds 
one more testimony to the truth that the highest poetry 
exhibits itself in objective forms, moulded and colored 
by the feelings and experiences of the writer, and not in 
subjective representations of his immediate and perhaps 
temporary sensations. 

Keats thought himself to be slowly but surely reco- 
vering, when the spitting of blood came on, followed by 
tightness of the chest and other symptoms, which made 
it apparent that nothing but a winter in a milder climate 
would have a chance of saving his life. It is sad to con- 
template with what delight, under other auspices, he 
would have undertaken a visit to those southern lands, 
the favorites of nature, still tenanted by those mytho- 
logic presences of beauty which he had so peculiarly 
made his own. Now he writes, " the journey to Italy 
wakes me at daylight every morning, and haunts me 
horribly. I shall endeavor to go, though it be with the 
sensation of marching up against a battery." He felt he 
had a " core of disease in him not easy to pull out," and 
he had no sufficient hope of ultimate good to remedy 
the pangs of present separation. He had been tended 
for a few weeks by the one hand that could soothe him, 
and that he must leave, perhaps forever. And he would 
have had to go alone but for the affection of Mr. Severn, 
the young artist, who had just won the gold medal given 
by the Royal Academy for historical painting which had 
not been adjudged for the last twelve years. Regardless 
of personal and professional advantages the painter de- 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 49 

voted himself to the afflicted poet, and they started in 
the middle of September by sea. Wlien scarcely em- 
barked, Keats wrote despondingly to Mr. Brown, taking 
that opportunity of ease, " for time seems to press." 
He wishes to write on subjects that would not agitate 
him and yet he is ever recurring to that which wears 
his heart away. 

" If my body would recover of itself, this would pre- 
vent it ; the very thing which I want to live most for 
will be a great occasion of my death. * * i wish for 
death every day and night to deliver me from these pains, 
and then I wish death away, for death would destroy 
even those pains, which are better than nothing. Land 
and sea, weakness and decline, are great separators, but 
death is the great divorcer for ever. "When the pang of 
this thought has passed through my mind, I may say the 
bitterness of death is passed. * * I am in a state at 
present in which woman, merely as woman, can have 
no more power over me than stocks and stones, and yet 

the difference of my sensations with respect to Miss 

and my sister is amazing : the one seems to absorb the 
other to a degree incredible. I seldom think of my 
brother and sister in America ; the thought of leaving 

Miss is beyond everything horrible — the sense of 

darkness coming over me — I eternally see her figure 
eternally vanishing." 

At Naples the gloom grows still darker, and we feel 
that the night is at hand. 



50 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

" The fresli air revived me a little, and I hope I am 
well enough this morning to write you a short calm 
letter — if that can be called one, in which I am afraid 
to speak of what I would fainest dwell upon. As I have 
gone thus far into it, I must go on a little — perhaps it 
may relieve the load of wretchedness which presses upon 
me. The persuasion that I shall see her no more will 
kill me. My dear Brown, I should have had her when 
I was in health, and I should have remained well. I 
can hear to die — I cannot bear to leave her. Oh, God ! 
God! God! Everything I have in my trunks that 
reminds me of her goes through me like a spear. The 
silk lining she put in my travelling-cap scalds my head. 
My imagination is horribly vivid about her — I see her — 
I hear her. There is nothing in the world of sufficient 
interest to divert me from her a moment. This was 
the case when I was in England. I cannot recollect, 
without shuddering, the time I was prisoner at Hunt's 
and used to keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead all 
day. Then there was a good hope of seeing her 
again — !N"ow ! — that I could be buried near where she 
lives. * * * Is there any news of George? O, that 
something fortunate had ever happened to me or my 
brothers ! then I might hope, but despair is forced upon 
me as a habit. My dear Brown, for my sake, be her 
advocate for ever. I cannot say a word about Naples ; 
I do not feel at all concerned in the thousand novelties 
around me. I am afraid to write to her. I should like 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 51 

lier to know I do not forget lier. Oh ! Brown, I hav6 
coals of fire in my breast. It surprises me that the 
human heart is capable of containing and bearing so 
much misery. Was I born for this end?" 

He received at Naples a most aflectionate letter from 
Mr. Shelley urging him to come to Pisa, where he 
would receive every comfort and attention. After the 
many annoyances he encountered at Rome, one almost 
regrets that he did not accept this offer, except that at 
Pisa he could not have experienced the skilful solicitude 
of Dr. (now Sir James) Clark, which led him through 
the dark passages of mortal sickness with every allevia- 
tion that medical care and knowledge could bestow. It 
was thus alone that his life was preserved during De- 
cember and January. On the last day of November he 
wrote his last letter, — in a tone of mind somewhat less 
painful. He spoke of his real life as something passed, 
and as if he were leading a posthumous existence. It 
ends with these words : — " If I recover, I will do all in 
my power to correct the mistakes made during sickness, 
and, if I should not, all my faults will be forgiven. 
"Write to George as soon as you receive this, and tell 
him how I am, as far as you can guess ; and also a note 
to my sister — who walks about my imagination like 
a ghost — she is so like Tom. I can scarcely bid you 
good-bye, even in a letter. I always made an awkward 
bow. God bless you. 

John Keats." 



5^ MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

After some weeks of acute physical suiFering and of 
a fierce mental conflict witli destiny, in which reason 
itself was, at times, overcome, he became calm and re- 
signed ; he talked easily and slept peacefully. To 
Severn, who, to use his own phrase " had been beating 
about 80 long in the tempest of his friend's mind," this 
change was most welcome, although conscious that it 
was rather owing to the increasing debility of his body, 
than to any real improvement of his condition. He de- 
sired a letter from his beloved, which he did not dare 
to read, together with a purse and letter of his sister's* 
to be placed in his coffin, and that on his grave should 
be written these words : — 

HERE LIES ONE WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT IN WATER. 

He died on the 27th of February, so quiet that Severn 
thought he still slept ; his last words were " Thank God 
it has comCi" 

Keats was buried in the Protestant cemetery at 
Rome, one of the most beautiful spots on which the eye 
and heart of man can rest. It is a grassy slope, amid 
verdurous ruins of the Honorian walls of the diminished 
city, surmounted by the pyramidal tomb which Petrarch 
ascribed to Eemus, but which antiquarian research has 
attributed to the humbler name of Caius Cestius, a 

* Miss Keats shortly afterwards married Senor Llanos, the author of 
" Don Esteban," " Sandoval the Freemason," and other works of consi- 
derable ability. 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 53 

Tribune of the people, only remembered by his sepul- 
chre. In one of these mental voyages into the past, 
which precede death, Keats had told Severn that he 
thought " the intensest pleasure he had received in hfe 
was in watching the growth of flowers;" and another 
time, after lying a while quite still, he murmured, " I 
feel the flowers growing over me." And there they 
do grow even all the winter long,— violets and daisies 
mingling with the fresh herbage, and in the words of 
Slielley "making one in love with death, to think one 
should be buried in so sweet a place." Some years ago, 
when the writer of this memoir was at Rome, the thick 
grass had nearly overgrown the humble tombstone, 
which however few strangers of our race omit to visit; 
but whether this record of him escapes the wreck of 
years or not, there will remain, as long as the English 
language lasts, and be read, as far as it extends,'^ the 
glorious monument, erected by the living genius of 
Shelley, the Elegy of Adonais. I^Tor will it be forgot- 
ten, how few years afterwards, in the extended burying- 
ground, a little above the grave of Keats, was placed 
another stone, recording that below rests the pas- 
sionate and world-worn heart of Shelley himself: " Cor 
Cordium."* 

The thoughtful reader will hardly consider this bio- 
graphical sketch, personal as it is, without its worth 
in estimating the due position of these Poems in the 

* The words on the stone. 



54 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 

histoiy of British literature. By common consent, the 
individuality of the Poet enters more directly into the 
consideration of his works than that of a writer in any 
other mental field. That these Poems should be the 
productions of a young surgeon's apprentice, with no 
more opportunities of study and reflection than belonged 
to the general middle class of his time and country, is 
in itself a psychological wonder, only to be paralleled 
by the phenomenon of Chatterton. While this reflec- 
tion enhances the originality and palliates the defects 
of the earlier works of Keats, the picture of that sym- 
pathetic temper and genial disposition, which led his 
imao;ination to a novel and unscholastic treatment of 
classical tradition, and made him labor to realize a 
world of love and beauty in which his heart found itself 
most at home, would induce us to ascribe to the morose 
nature and lonely pride of Bristol's prodigy much of 
the misdirection of the rarest talents, and many other- 
wise undeserved calamities. And, when in pursuing 
the course of the later Poet we find him too the victim 
of critical contempt, haunted by pressing poverty, struck 
with acute physical suflering, and blighted in his deepest 
afiections, and yet, with a genius above fate, rectifying 
and purifying his powers to the very last, our personal 
interest identifies itself with our literary admiration, 
and we better appreciate the merit of the poet by under- 
standing the nobility of the man. It is not indeed that 
he was notably one of those who "are cradled into 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 55 

poetry by wrong," and "learn in suffering what they 
teach in song," for his temperament demanded happi- 
ness for its atmosphere, and pleasure expanded without 
enervating his powers ; but, it was perhaps required, for 
the vindication of his nature from the charge of senti- 
mental sensuality and unmanly dependence, that he 
should be thus severely tried, and that the simple story 
of his life and death should be the refutation of those 
who knowingly calumniated, or unconsciously misap- 
prehended him. 

The works of Keats have now sustained, in some de- 
gree, the test of time ; his generation, fertile in poetical 
ability, has passed away, and a fair comparison may be 
instituted among its competitors for fame. Without 
entering on a question of so much intricacy, it cannot 
be denied that these Poems are read by every accurate 
student of English literature. It is natural that the 
young should find especial delight in productions which 
take so much of their inspiration from the exuberant 
vitality of the author and of the world. But the eternal 
youth of antique beauty does not confine its influences 
to any portion of the life of man. And thus the admi- 
ration of the writings of Keats survives the hot impulses 
of early years, and these pages often remain open, when 
the clamorous sublimities of Byron and Shelley come to 
be unwelcome intruders on the calm of maturer age. 
To these and such voices the poetic sense still listens, 
and will listen ever, in preference to more instructive 



56 MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS.' 

harmonies ; and the fancy recognizes in the unaccom- 
plished promise of this wonderful boy, a symbol of that 
old world, where the perfect physical organization of 
man, and the perfect type of ideal beauty may seem to 
have been crushed and obliterated by barbarian hands, 
but which perished, in truth, because these very aspira- 
tions could only be realized in another and still more 
glorious order of the universe. 



endymion: 



A POETIC ROMANCE. 



INSCRIBED TO 



THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTEETOIT. 



THE STRETCHED METRE OF AN ANTIQUE SONG. 



PREFACE. 



Knowing within myself tlie manner in which this 
Poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling of 
regret that I make it public. 

"What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the 
reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, im- 
maturity, and every error denoting a feverish attempt, 
rather than a deed accomplished. The two first books, 
and indeed the two last, I feel sensible are not of such 
completion as to warrant their passing the press ; nor 
should they if I thought a year's castigation would do 
them any good; — it will not: the foundations are too 
sandy. It is just that this youngster should die away : 
a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while 
it is dwindling I may be plotting, and fitting myself for 
verses fit to live. 

This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may 
deserve a punishment : but no feeling man will be for- 
ward to inflict it ; he will leave me alone, with the con- 
viction that there is not a fiercer hell than the failure in 
a great object. This is not written with the least atom 



60 



PREFACE. 



of purpose to forestall criticisms of course, but from tlie 
desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to 
look, and who do look with a zealous eye, to the honor 
of English literature. 

The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature 
imagination of a man is healthy ; but there is a space of 
life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the cha- 
racter undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition 
thick-sighted : thence proceeds mawkishness, and all the 
thousand bitters which those men I speak of must 
necessarily taste in going over the following pages. 

I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beau- 
tiful mythology of Greece, and dulled its brightness : for 
I wish to try once more before I bid it farewell. 

Teignmouth, April 10, 1818. 



>*, 




ENDYMION 



BOOK I. 

A THING of beauty is a joy forever: 

Its loveliness increases ; it will never 

Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, and liealth, and quiet breathing. 

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 

A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth, 

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 

Of all the unhealthy and o'erdarkened ways 

Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all, 

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon. 

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 

For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 

With the green world they live in ; and clear rills 

That for themselves a cooling covert make 

'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake, 

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms ; 

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 

We have imagined for the mighty dead ; 

All lovely tales that we have heard or read : 

An endless fountain of immortal drink. 

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 



62 ENDYMION. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 
For one sliort hour ; no, even as the trees 
That whisper round a temple become soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
^The passion poesy, glories infinite, 
Haunt us till they become a cheering light 
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast, 
They alway must be with us, or we die. 

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I 
"Will trace the story of Endymion. 
The very music of the name has gone 
Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
Is growing fresh before me as the green 
Of our own valleys : so I will begin 
Now while I cannot hear the city's din ; 
Now while the early budders are just new, 
And run in mazes of the youngest hue 
About old forests ; while the willow trails 
Its delicate amber ; and the dairy pails 
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year 
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer 
■ My little boat, for many quiet hours, 
"With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. 
Many and many a verse I hope to write, 
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white, 
Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the bees 
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, 
I must be near the middle of my story. 
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary. 
See it half-finished : but let Autumn bold. 
With universal tinge of sober gold. 
Be all about me when I make an end. 



ENDYMION. 63 

And now at once, adventuresome, I send 
My herald thought into a wilderness : 
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress 
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed 
Easily onward, through flowers and weed. 

Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread 
A mighty forest ; for the moist earth fed 
So plenteously all weed-hidden roots 
Into o'erhanging houghs, and precious fruits. 
And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep, 
Where no man went ; and if from shepherd's keep 
A lamb strayed far adown those inmost glens, 
Never again saw he the happy pens 
"Whither his brethren, bleating with content, 
Over the hills at every nightfall went. 
Among the shepherds 'twas believed ever. 
That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever 
From the white flock, but passed unworried 
By any wolf, or pard with piying head. 
Until it came to some unfooted plains 
Where fed the herds of Pan : ay, great his gains 
"Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were 

many, 
Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny. 
And ivy banks ; all leading pleasantly 
To a wide lawn, whence one could only see 
Stems thronging all around between the swell 
Of tuft and slanting branches : who could tell 
The freshness of the space of heaven above. 
Edged round with dark tree-tops ? through which a 

dove 
Would often beat its wings, and often too 
A little cloud would move across the blue. 



64 ENDYMION. 

Full in the middle of this pleasantness 
There stood a marble altar, with a tress 
Of flowers budded newly ; and the dew 
Had taken faiiy phantasies to strew 
Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve, 
And so the dawned light in pomp receive. 
For 'twas the morn : Apollo's upward fire 
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre 
Of brightness so unsullied, that therein 
A melancholy spirit well might win 
Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine 
Into the winds : rain-scented eglantine 
Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun ; 
The lark was lost in him ; cold springs had run 
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass ; 
Man's voice was on the mountains ; and the mass 
Of nature's lives and wonders pulsed tenfold. 
To feel this sunrise and its glories old. 

ITow while the silent workings of the dawn 
Were busiest, into that self-same lawn 
All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped 
A troop of little children garlanded ; 
Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pry 
Earnestly round, as wishing to espy 
Some folk of holiday : nor had they waited 
For many moments, ere their ears were sated 
With a faint breath of music, which even then 
Filled out its voice, and died away again. 
Within a little space again it gave * 

Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave. 
To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking, 
Through copse-clad valleys — ere their death, o'ertaking 
The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. 



E N D y M 1 N. 65 

And now, as deep into the wood as we 
Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered light 
Fair faces and a rush of garments white, 
Plainer and plainer showing, till at last 
Into the widest alley they all passed, 
Making directly for the woodland altar. 
O kindly muse ! let not my weak tongue falter 
In telling of this goodly company. 
Of their old piety, and of their glee : . 
But let a portion of ethereal dew 
Fall on my head, and presently unmew 
My soul ; that I may dare, in wayfaring. 
To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing. 

Leading the way, young damsels danced along. 
Bearing the hurden of a shepherd's song ; 
Each having a white wicker, overbrimmed 
"With April's tender younglings : next, well trimmed, 
A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks 
As may be read of in Arcadian books ; 
Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, 
"When the great deity, for earth too ripe. 
Let his divinity o'erflowing die 
In music, through the vales of Thessaly : 
Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground, 
And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound 
"With ebon-tipped flutes ; close after these, 
Now coming from beneath the forest trees, 
A venerable priest full soberly, 
Begirt with ministering looks : alway his eye 
Steadfast upon the matted turf he kept. 
And after him his sacred vestments swept. 
From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white. 
Of mingled wine, outsparkling generous light ; 

5 



^>6 E N D Y M 1 N. 

And ill liis left lie held a basket full 

Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull : 

Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still 

Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill. 

His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath, 

Seemed like a poll of ivy in the teeth 

Of winter hoar. Then came another crowd 

Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud 

Their share of the ditty. After them appeared, 

Upfollowed by a multitude that reared 

Their voices to the clouds, a fair-wrought car 

Easily rolling so as scarce to mar 

The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown : 

Who stood therein did seem of great renown 

Among the throng. His youth was fully blown, 

Showing like Ganymede to manhood grown ; 

And, for those simple times, his garments were 

A chieftain king's : beneath his breast, half bare, 

Was hung a silver bugle, and between 

His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen. 

A smile was on his countenance ; he seemed 

To common lookers-on, like one who dreamed 

Of idleness in groves Elysian : 

But there were some who feelingly could scan 

A lurking trouble in his nether lip, 

And see that oftentimes the reins would slip 

Through his forgotten hands : then would they sigh, 

And think of yellow leaves, of owlets' cry. 

Of logs piled solemnly. — Ah, well-a-day. 

Why should our young Endymion pine away ! 

Soon the assembly, in a circle ranged, 
Stood silent round the shrine : each look was changed 
To sudden veneration : women meek 



ENDYMION. C7 

Beckoned tlieir sons to silence ; while each cheek 

Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear. 

Endymion too, without a forest peer, 

Stood, wan and pale, and with an awed face. 

Among his brothers of the mountain chase. 

In midst of all, the venerable priest 

Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least, 

And, after lifting up his aged hands, 

Thus spake he : " Men of Latmos ! shepherd bands ! 

Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks : 

Whether descended from beneath the rocks 

That overtop your mountains ; whether come 

From valleys where the pipe is never dumb ; 

Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs 

Blue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furze 

Buds lavish gold ; or ye, whose precious charge 

ISTibble their fill at ocean's very marge, 

Whose mellow reeds are touched with sounds forlorn 

By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn : 

Mothers and wives ! who day by day prepare 

The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air ; 

And all ye gentle girls who foster up 

Udderless lambs, and in a little cup, 

Will put choice honey for a favoured youth : 

Yea, every one attend ! for in good truth 

Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan. 

Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than 

Night-swollen mushrooms ! Are not our wide plains 

Speckled with countless fleeces ? Have not rains 

Greened over April's lap ? I^o howling sad 

Sickens our fearful ewes ; and we have had 

Great bounty from Endymion our lord. 

The earth is glad : the merry lark has poured 

His early song against yon breezy sls^^. 

That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity." 



68 . E N D Y M I N. 

Thus ending, on the shrine he heaped a spire 
Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire ; 
Anon he stained the thick and spongy sod 
With wine, in honor of the shepherd god. 
Now while the earth was drinking it, and while 
Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile, 
And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright 
'ISTeath smothering parsley, and a hazy light 
Spread grayly eastward, thus a chorus sang : 

" thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang 
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death 
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness ; 
Who lovest to see the hamadryads dress 
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken ; 
And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken 
The dreary melody of bedded reeds — 
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds 
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth. 
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth 
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do thou now, 
By thy love's millsy brow ! 
By all the trembling mazes that she ran. 
Hear us, great Pan ! 

" O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles 
Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles. 
What time thou wanderest at eventide 
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side 
Of thine emmossed realms : O thou, to whom 
Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom 
Their ripened fruitage ; yellow-girted bees 
Their golden honeycombs ; our village leas 



E N D Y M 1 N. 69 

Their fairest blossomed beans and poppied corn ; 
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, 
To sing for thee ; low-creeping strawberries 
Their summer coolness ; pent-up butterflies 
Their freckled wings ; yea, the fresh-budding year 
All its completions — be quickly near, 
By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
O forester divine ! 

" Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies 
For willing service ; whether to surprise 
The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit ; 
Or upward ragged precipices flit 
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw ; 
Or by mysterious enticement draw 
Bewildered shepherds to their path again ; 
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main. 
And gather up all fancifullest shells 
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, 
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping ; 
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, 
The while they pelt each other on the crown 
With silvery oak-apples, and fir-cones brown — 
By all the echoes that about thee ring. 
Hear us, satyr king ! 

" Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, 
While ever and anon to his shorn peers 
A ram goes bleating : Winder of the horn, 
WTien snouted wild-boars routing tender corn 
Anger our huntsman : Breather round our farms, 
To keep off" mildews, and all weather harms : 
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, 
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds. 



70 ENDYMION. 

And wither drearily on barren moors : 
Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
Leading to universal knowledge — see, 
Great son of Dryope, 

The many that are come to pay their vows 
With leaves about their brows ! 

" Be still the unimaginable lodge 
For solitary thinkings ; such as dodge 
Conception to the very bourne of heaven, 
Then leave the naked brain : be s.till the leaven, 
That spreading in this dull and clodded, earth, 
Gives it a touch ethereal — a new birth : 
Be still a symbol of immensity : 
A firmament reflected in a sea ; 
An element filling the space between ; 
An unknown — ^but no more : we humbly screen 
"VYith uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, 
And giving out a shout most heaven-rending, 
Conjure thee to receive our hvimble Ptean, 
Upon thy Mount Lycean !" 

Even while they brought the burden to a close, 
A shout from the whole multitude arose, 
That lingered in the air like dying rolls 
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals 
Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine. 
Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine, 
Young companies nimbly began dancing 
To the swift treble pipe, and humming string. 
Ay, those fair living forms swam heavenly 
To tunes foregotten — out of memory : 
Fair creatures ! whose young children's children bred 
Thermopylae its heroes — not yet dead, 
But in old marbles ever beautiful. 



ENDYMION. 71 

Higli genitors, unconscious did they cull 

Time's sweet first-fruits — tliey danced to weariness. 

And tlien in quiet circles did they press 

The hillock turf, and caught the latter end 

Of some strange history, potent to send 

A young mind from its bodily tenement. 

Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent 

On either side ; pitying the sad death 

Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath 

Of Zephyr slew him, — Zephyr penitent, 

Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament. 

Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain. 

The archers too, upon a wider plain. 

Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft. 

And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raft 

Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top, 

Called up a thousand thoughts to envelop 

Those who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling knee 

And frantic gape of lonely Niobe, 

Poor, lonely Niobe ! when her lovely young 

Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue 

Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip, 

And very, very deadliness did nip 

Her motherly cheeks. Aroused from this sad mood 

By one, who at a distance loud hallooed, 

Uplifting his strong bow into the air. 

Many might after brighter visions stare : 

After the Argonauts, in blind amaze 

Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways, 

Until, from the horizon's vaulted side. 

There shot a golden splendor far and wide. 

Spangling those million poutings of the brine 

With quivering ore : 'twas even an awful shine 

From the exaltation of Apollo's bow; 



72 E N D Y M 1 N. 

A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe. 

Who thus were ripe for high contemplating, 

Might turn their steps towards the sober ring 

Where sat Endymion and the aged priest 

'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increased 

The silvery setting of their mortal star. 

There they discoursed upon the fragile bar 

That keeps us from our homes ethereal ; 

And what our duties there : to nightly call 

Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather ; 

To summon all the downiest clouds together 

For the sun's purple couch ; to emulate 

In ministering the potent rule of fate 

With speed of fire-tailed exhalations ; 

To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons 

Sweet poesy by moonlight : besides these, 

A world of other unguessed ofiices. 

Anon they wandered, by divine converse, 

Into Elysium ; vying to rehearse 

Each one his own anticipated bliss. 

One felt heart-certain that he could not miss 

His quick-gone love, among fair blossomed boughs, 

Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and endows 

Her lips with music for the welcoming. 

Another wished, 'mid that eternal spring, 

To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails. 

Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales ; 

Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind, 

And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind ; 

And, ever after, through those regions be 

His messenger, his little Mercury. 

Some were athirst in soul to see again 

Their fellow-huntsmen o'er the wide champaign 

In times long past ; to sit with them, and talk 



E N D Y M 1 N. 



73 



Of all the chances in their earthly walk ; 

Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores 

Of happiness, to when upon the moors, 

Benighted, close they huddled from the cold. 

And shared their famished scrips. Thus all out-told 

Their fond imaginations, — saving him 

Whose eyelids curtained up their jewels dim, 

Endymion : yet hourly had he striven 

To hide the cankering venom, that had riven 

His fainting recollections. ISTow indeed 

His senses had swooned off: he did not heed 

The sudden silence, or the whispers low. 

Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe. 

Or anxious calls, or close of trembling palms. 

Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms : 

But in the self-same fixed trance he kept. 

Like one who on the earth had never stept. 

Ay, even as dead-still as a marble man, 

Frozen in that old tale Arabian. 

"Who whispers him so pantingly and close ? 
Peona, his sweet sister : of all those. 
His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she made, 
And breathed a sister's sorrow to persuade 
A yielding up, a cradling on her care. 
Her eloquence did breathe away the curse : 
She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse 
Of happy changes in emphatic dreams. 
Along a path between two little streams, — 
Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow, 
From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slow 
From stumbling over stumps and hillocks small ; 
Until they came to where these streamlets fall. 
With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush, 



74 ENDYMION. 

Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush 

With crystal mocking of the trees and sky. 

A little shallop, floating there hard by. 

Pointed its beak over the fringed bank ; 

And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank, 

And dipt again, with the young couple's weight, — 

Peona guiding, through the water straight. 

Towards a bowery island opposite ; 

Which gaining presently, she steered light 

Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove, 

^VTiere nested was an arbor, overwove 

By many a summer's silent fingering ; 

To whose cool bosom slie was used to bring 

Her playmates, with their needle broidery, 

And minstrel memories of times gone by. 

So she was gently glad to see him laid 
Under her favorite bower's quiet shade. 
On her own couch, new made of flower leaves. 
Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves 
When last the sun his autumn tresses shook, 
And the tanned harvesters rich armfuls took. 
Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest : 
But, ere it crept upon him, he had prest 
Peona's busy hand against his lips. 
And still a-sleeping, held her finger-tips 
In tender pressure. And as a willow keeps 
A patient watch over the stream that creeps 
Windingly by it, so the quiet maid 
Held her in peace : so that a whispering blade 
Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling 
Down in the blue-bells, or a wren light rustling 
Among sere leaves and twigs, might all be heard. 



E N D Y M I N. 75 

O magic sleep ! comfortable bird, 
That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind 
Till it is hushed and smooth ! unconfined 
Restraint ! imprisoned liberty ! great key 
To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy, 
Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, 
Echoing grottoes, full of tumbling waves 
And moonlight ; ay, to all the mazy world 
Of silvery enchantment ! — who, upfurled 
Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour. 
But renovates and lives ? — Thus, in the bower, 
Endymion was calmed to life again. 
Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain. 
He said : "I feel this thine endearing love 
All through my bosom : thou art as a dove 
Trembling its closed eyes and sleeked wings 
About me ; and the pearliest dew not brings 
Such morning incense from the fields of May, 
As do those brighter drops that twinkling stray 
From those kind eyes, — the very home and haunt 
Of sisterly affection. Can I want 
Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears ? 
Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears 
That, any longer, I will pass my days 
Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise 
My voice upon the mountain-heights ; once more 
Make my horn parley from their foreheads hoar : 
Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll 
Around the breathed boar : again I'll poll 
The fair-grown yew-tree, for a chosen bow : 
And, when the pleasant sun is getting low. 
Again I'll linger in a sloping mead 
To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed 
Our idle sheep. So be thou cheered, sweet ! 



'6. ENDYMION. 

J 

And, if thy lute is here, softly entreat 
My soul to keep in its resolved course." 

Hereat Peona, in their silver source. 
Shut her pure sorrow-drops with glad exclaim. 
And took a lute, from which there pulsing came 
A lively prelude, fashioning the way 
In which her voice should wander. 'Twas a lay 
More subtle-cadenced, more forest wild 
Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child ; 
And nothing since has floated in the air 
So mournful strange. Surely some influence rare 
Went, spiritual, through the damsel's hand ; 
For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spanned 
The quick invisible strings, even though she saw 
Endymion's spirit melt away and thaw 
Before the deep intoxication. 
But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon 
Her self-possession — swung the lute aside, 
And earnestly said : " Brother, 'tis vain to hide 
That thou dost know of things mysterious, 
Immortal, starry : such alone could thus 
Weigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinned in aught 
Oflensive to the heavenly powers ? Caught 
A Paphian dove upon a message sent ? 
Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent. 
Sacred to Dian ? Haply, thou hast seen 
Her naked limbs among the alders green ; 
And that, alas ! is death. ISTo, I can trace 
Something more high perplexing in thy face !" 

Endymion looked at her, and pressed her hand. 
And said, " Art thou so pale, who wast so bland 
And merry in our meadows ? How is this ? 



E N D Y M 1 N. 77 

Tell me thine ailment ; tell me all amiss ! 

Ah ! thou hast been unhappy at the change 

Wrought suddenly in me. Wliat indeed more strange ? 

Or more complete to overwhelm surmise ? 

Ambition is no sluggard : 'tis no prize, 

That toiling years would put within my grasp, 

That I have sighed for : with so deadly gasp 

ISTo man e'er panted for a mortal love. 

So all have set my heavier grief above 

These things which happen. Rightly have they done : 

I, who still saw the horizontal sun 

Heave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the world, 

Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurled 

My spear aloft, as signal for the chase — 

I, who, for very sport of heart, would race 

With my own steed from Araby ; pluck down 

A vulture from his towering perching ; frown 

A lion into growling, loth retire — 

To lose, at once, all my toil-breeding fire 

And sink thus low ! but I will ease my breast 

Of secret grief, here in this bowery nest. 

" This river does not see the naked sky. 
Till it begins to progress silverly 
Around the western border of the wood. 
Whence, from a certain spot, its winding flood 
Seems at the distance like a crescent moon : 
And in that nook, the very pride of June, 
Had I been used to pass my weary eves ; 
The rather for the sun unwilling leaves 
So dear a picture of his sovereign power. 
And I could witness his most kingly hour. 
When he doth tighten up the golden reins. 
And paces leisurely down amber plains 



78 E N D Y M 1 N. 

His snorting four. Now when his chariot last 
Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast, 
There blossomed suddenly a magic bed 
Of sacred dittany, and poppies red: 
At which I wondered greatly, knowing well 
That but one night had wrought this flowery spell ; 
And, sitting down close by, began to muse 
What it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, Morpheus, 
' In passing here, his owlet pinions shook; 
Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook 
Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth. 
Had dipped his rod in it : such garland wealth 
Came not by common growth. Thus on I thought. 
Until my head was dizzy and distraught. 
Moreover, through the dancing poppies stole 
A breeze most softly lulling to my soul ; 
And shaping visions all about my sight 
Of colors, wings, and bursts of spangly light ; 
The which became more strange, and strange, and dim 
And then were gulfed in a tumultuous swim : 
And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell 
The enchantment that afterwards befell ? 
Yet it was but a dream : yet such a dream 
That never tongue, although it overteem 
With mellow utterance, like a cavern spring. 
Could figure out and to conception bring 
All I beheld and felt. Methought I lay 
Watching the zenith, where the milky way 
Among the stars in virgin splendor pours ; 
And travelling my eye, until the doors 
Of heaven appeared to open for my flight, 
I became loth and fearful to alight 
From such high soaring by a downward glance : 
So kept me steadfiist in that airy trance, 



ENDYMION. 79 

Spreading imaginary pir^ions wide. 

Wlien, presently, the stars began to glide, 

And faint away, before my eager view : 

At which I sighed that I could not pursue. 

And dropped my vision to the horizon's verge ; 

And lo ! from the opening clouds I saw emerge 

The loveliest moon, that ever silvered o'er 

A shell for !N"eptune's goblet ; she did soar 

So jDassionately bright, my dazzled soul 

Commingling with her argent spheres did roll 

Through clear and cloudy, even when she went 

At last into a dark and vapory tent — 

Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train 

Of planets all were in the blue again. 

To commune with those orbs, once more I raised 

My sight right upward : but it was quite dazed 

By a bright something, sailing down apace. 

Making me quickly veil my eyes and face : 

Again I looked, and, O ye deities. 

Who from Olympus watch our destinies ! 

Whence that completed form of all completeness ? 

Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness ? 

Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O where 

Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair ? 

Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun ; 

Kot — ^thy soft hand, fair sister ! let me shun 

Such follying before thee — yet she had, 

Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad ; 

And they were simply gordianed up and braided. 

Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded. 

Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow : 

The which were blended in, I know not how, 

With such a paradise of lips and eyes, 

Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles and faintest sighs, 



80 ENDYMION. 

That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings 
And plays about its fancy, till the stings 
Of human neighborhood envenom all. 
Unto what awful power shall I call ? 
To what high fane ? — Ah ! see her hovering feet, 
More bluely veined, more soft, more whitely sweet 
Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose 
From out her cradle shell. The wind out-blows 
*±Ier scarf into a fluttering pavilion ; 

'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million 

Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed, 

Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed, 

Handfuls of daisies." — "Endymion, how strange ! 

Dream within dream !" — " She took an airy range. 

And then, towards me, like a very maid. 

Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid. 

And pressed me by the hand : Ah ! 'twas too much ; 

Methought I fainted at the charmed touch, 

Yet held my recollection, even as one 

Who dives three fathoms where the waters run 

Gurgling in beds of coral : for anon, 

I felt upmounted in that region 

Where falling stars dart their artillery forth, 

And eagles struggle with the buffeting north 

That balances the heavy meteor-stone ; — 

Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone. 

But lapped and lulled along the dangerous sky. 

Soon, as it seemed, we left our journeying high, 

And straightway into frightful eddies swooped ; 

Such as aye muster where gray time has scooped 

Hu2:e dens and caverns in a mountain's side : 

There hollow sounds aroused me, and I sighed 

To faint once more by looking on my bliss — 

I was distracted ; madly did I kiss 




Aiore- dlu-gfy v^iynd^, m.or& sofC. more. w/iUely e>-mr/ 



ENDYMION. 81 

The wooing arms which held me, and did give 

My eyes at once to death : but 'twas to live, 

To take in draughts of life from the gold fount 

Of kind and passionate looks ; to count, and count 

The moments, by some greedy help that seemed 

A second self, that each might be redeemed 

And plundered of its load of blessedness. 

Ah, desperate mortal ! I even dared to press 

Her very cheek against my crowned lip, 

And, at that moment, felt my body dip 

Into a warmer air : a moment more. 

Our feet were soft in flowers. There was store 

Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes 

A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, 

Loitered around us ; then of honey cells. 

Made delicate from all white-flower bells ; 

And once, above the edges of our nest. 

An arch face peeped,— an Oread as I guessed. 

" Wliy did I dream that sleep o'erpowered me 
In midst of all this heaven ? Why not see, 
Far ofi:^, the shadows of his pinions dark. 
And stare them from me ? But no, like a spark 
That needs must die, although its little beam 
Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream 
Fell into nothing — into stupid sleep. 
And so it was, until a gentle creep, 
A careful moving caught my waking ears. 
And up I started : Ah ! my sighs, my tears. 
My clenched hands ;— for lo ! the poppies hung 
Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sung 
A heavy ditty, and the sullen day 
Had chidden herald Hesperus away, 
With leaden looks : the solitary breeze 

6 



82 E N D Y M 1 N. 

Blustered, and slept, and its wild self did tease 

With wayward melanclioly ; and I tliouglit, 

Mark me, Peona ! that sometimes it brought 

Faint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled adieus ! — 

Away I wandered — all the pleasant hues 

Of heaven and earth had faded : deepest shades 

Were deepest dungeons : heaths and sunny glades 

Were full of pestilent light ; our taintless rills 

Seemed sooty, and o'erspread with upturned gills 

Of dying fish ; the vermeil rose had blown 

In frightful scarlet, and its thorns outgrown 

Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird 

Before my heedless footsteps stirred, and stirred 

In little journeys, I beheld in it 

A disguised demon, missioned to knit 

My soul with under darkness ; to entice 

M}'^ stumblings down some monstrous precipice : 

Therefore I eager followed, and did curse 

The disappointment. Time, that aged nurse, 

Rocked me to patience. Now, thank gentle heaven ! 

These things, with all their comfortings, are given 

To my down-sunken hours, and with thee. 

Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea 

Of weary life." 

Thus ended he, and both. 
Sat silent : for the maid was very loth 
To answer ; feeling well that breathed words 
Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords 
Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps 
Of grasshoppers against the sun. She weeps 
And wonders ; struggles to devise some blame ; 
To put on such a look as would say, Shame 
On this poor weakness ! but, for all her strife, 



ENDYMION. 83 

She could as soon have crushed away the life 

From a sick dove. At length, to break the pause, 

She said with trembling chance : "Is this the cause ? 

This all ? Yet it is strange, and sad, alas ! 

That one who through this middle earth should pass 

Most like a sojourning demi-god, and leave 

His name upon the harp-string, should achieve 

'No higher bard than simple maidenhood. 

Singing alone, and fearfully, — how the blood 

Left his young cheek ; and how he used to stray 

He knew not where : and how he would say, nai/, 

If any said 'twas love : and yet 'twas love ; 

Wliat could it be but love ? How a ring-dove 

Let fall a sprig of yew-tree in his path 

And how he died : and then, that love doth scathe 

The gentle heart, as northern blasts do roses ; 

And then the ballad of his sad life closes 

With sighs, and an alas ! — ^Endymion ! 

Be rather in the trumpet's mouth, — anon 

Among the winds at large — that all may hearken ! 

Although, before the crystal heavens darken, 

I watch and dote upon the silver lakes 

Pictured in western cloudiness, that takes 

The semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands, 

Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strands 

"With horses prancing o'er them, palaces 

And towers of amethyst, — would I so tease 

My pleasant days, because I could not mount 

Into those regions ? The Morphean fount 

Of that fine element that visions, dreams. 

And fitful whims of sleep are made of, streams 

Into its airy channels with so subtle. 

So thin a breathing, not the spider's shuttle, 

Circled a million times within the space 



8-* ENDYMION. 

Of a swallow's nest-door, could delay a trace, 
A tinting of its quality : liow light 
Must dreams tlicniselves be ; seeing they're more slight 
Than the mere nothing that engenders them ! 
iThen wherefore sully the entrusted gem 
/Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick? 
Why pierce high-fronted honor to the quick 
For nothing but a dream ?" Hereat the youth 
Looked up : a conflicting of shame and ruth 
Was in his plaited brow : yet his eyelids 
Widened a little, as when Zephyr bids 
A little breeze to creep between the fans 
Of careless butterflies : amid his pains 
He seemed to taste a drop of manna-dew, 
Full palatable ; and a color grew 
Upon his cheek, while thus he lifeful spake. 

" Peona ! ever have I longed to slake 
My thirst for the world's praises : nothing base, 
l!^o merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace 
The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepared — 
Though now 'tis tattered ; leaving my bark bared 
And sullenly drifting : yet my higher hope 
Is of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope. 
To fret at m^^riads of earthly wrecks. 
Wherein lies happiness ? In that which becks 
Our ready minds to fellowship divine, 
A fellowship with essence ; till we shine. 
Full alchemized, and free of space. Behold 
The clear religion of heaven ! Fold 
A rose-leaf round thy finger's taperness. 
And soothe thy .lips : hist! when the airy stress 
Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds, 
And with a sympathetic touch unbinds 



E N D Y M 1 N. 85 

^olian maojic from tlieir lucid wombs : 

Then old songs waken from enelouded tombs ; 

Old ditties sigli above tlieir father's grave ; 

Ghosts of melodious prophesyings rave 

Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot ; 

Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit, 

Where long ago a giant battle was ; 

And, from the turf, a lullaby doth pass 

In every place Avhere infant Orpheus slept. 

Feel we these things ! — that moment have we stept 

Into a sort of oneness, and our state 

Is like a floating spirit's. But there are 

Richer entanglements, enthralments far 

More self-destroying, leading, by degrees. 

To the chief intensity : the crown of these 

Is made of love and friendship, and sits high 

Upon the forehead of humanity. 

All its more ponderous and bulky worth 

Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth 

A steady splendor ; but at the tip-top, 

There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop 

Of light, and that is love : its influence 

Thrown in our eyes genders a novel sense. 

At which we start and fret : till in the end, 

Melting into its radiance, we blend. 

Mingle, and so become a part of it, — 

Nor with aught else can our souls interknit 

So wingedly : when we combine therewith, 

Life's self is nourished by its proper pith, 

And we are nurtured like a pelican brood. 

Ay, so delicious is the unsating food, 

That men, who might have towered in the van 

Of all the congregated world, to fan 

And winnow from the coming step of time 



80 ENDYMION. 

All cliaff of custom, wipe away all slime 

Left by men-slugs and human serpentry, 

Have been content to let occasion die, 

Whilst they did sleep in love's Elysium. 

And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb, 

Than speak against this ardent listlessness : 

For I have ever thought that it might bless 

The world with benefits unknowingly ; 

As does the nightingale, up-perched high, 

And cloistered among cool and bunched leaves — 

She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives 

How tiptoe ISTight holds back her dark-gray hood. 

Just so may love, although 'tis understood 

The mere commingling of passionate breath. 

Produce more than our searching witnesseth : 

What I know not : but who, of men, can tell 

That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would 

swell 
To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail. 
The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale. 
The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones. 
The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, 
Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet, 
If human souls did never kiss and greet ? 

" Now, if this earthly love has power to make 
Men's being mortal, immortal ; to shake 
Ambition from their memories, and brim 
Their measure of content ; what merest whim. 
Seems all this poor endeavor after fame. 
To one, who keeps within his steadfast aim 
A love immortal, an immortal too. 
Look not so wildered ; for these things are true, . 
And never can be born of atomies 



E N D Y M 1 N. 87 

That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies, 

Leaving us fancy-sick, l^o, no, I'm sure. 

My restless spirit never could endure 

To brood so long upon one luxury, 

Unless it did, though fearfully, espy 

A hope beyond the shadow of a dream. 

My sayings will the less obscured seem 

When I have told thee how my waking sight 

Has made me scruple whether that same night 

Was passed in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona ! 

Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, 

Which we should see but for these darkening boughs. 

Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows 

Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart, 

And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught, 

And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide 

Past them, but he must brush on ever}^ side. 

Some mouldered steps lead into this cool cell, 

Far as the slabbed margin of a well, 

Wliose patient level peeps its crystal eye 

Right upward, through the bushes, to the sky. 

Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set 

Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet 

Edges them round, and they have golden pits : , 

'Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slits 

In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat. 

When all above was faint with mid-day heat. 

And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed, 

I'd bubble up the water through a reed ; 

So reaching back to boyhood : make me ships 

Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips, 

With leaves stuck in them ; and the Neptune be 

Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily. 

When lovelorn hours had left me less a child. 



88 ENDYMION. 

I sat contemplating the figures wild 

Of o'er-liead clouds melting the mirror through. 

Upon a day, while thus I watched, hy flew 

A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver ; 

So plainly charactered, no breeze would shiver 

The happy chance : so happy, I was fain 

To follow it upon the open plain, 

And, therefore, was just going ; when, behold ! 

A wonder, fair as any I have told — 

The same bright face I tasted in my sleep, 

Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leap 

Through the cool depth. — It moved as if to flee — 

I started up, when lo ! refreshfully, 

There came upon my face, in plenteous showers, 

Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers, 

"Wrapping all objects from my smothered sight. 

Bathing my spirit in a new delight. 

Ay, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss 

Alone preserved me from the drear abyss 

Of death, for the fair form had gone again. 

Pleasure is oft a visitant ; but pain 

Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth 

On the deer's tender haunches : late, and loth, 

'Tis scared away by slow-returning pleasure. 

How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure 

Of weary days, made deeper exquisite, 

By a foreknowledge of unslumbrous night ! 

Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still. 

Than when I wandered from the poppy hill : 

And a whole age of lingering moments crept 

Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept 

Away at once the deadly yellow spleen. 

Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen ; 

Once more been tortured with renewed life. 



ENDYMION. 89 

When last the whitry gusts gave over strife 

"With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies 

Warm and serene, but yet with moistened eyes 

In pity of the shattered inftint buds, — 

That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs, 

My hunting-cap, because I laughed and smiled, 

Chatted with thee, and many days exiled 

All torment from my breast; — 'twas even then. 

Straying about, yet cooped up in the den 

Of helpless discontent, — hurling my lance 

From place to place, and following at chance. 

At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck, 

And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck 

In the middle of a brook, — whose silver ramble 

Down twenty little falls through reeds and bramble. 

Tracing along, it brought me to a cave, 

Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave 

The nether sides of mossy stones and rock, — 

'Mono* which it o'uro-led blithe adieus to mock 

Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, 

Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread 

Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home* 

' Ah ! impious mortal, whither do I roam !' 

Said I, low-voiced : ' Ah, whither ! 'Tis the grot 

Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot, 

Doth her resign : and where her tender hands 

She dabbles on the cool and sluicy sands : 

Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits, 

And babbles thorough silence, till her wits 

Are gone in tender madness, and anon. 

Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone 

Of sadness. that she would take my vows. 

And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, 

To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head, 



90 ENDYMION. 

Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from tlieir bed, 

And Aveave tliem dyingly — send honey-whispers 

Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers 

May sigh my love unto her pitying ! 

O charitable Echo ! hear, and sing 

This ditty to her ! — tell her' — So I stayed 

My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid, 

Stood stupified with my own empty folly, 

And blushing for the freaks of melancholy. 

Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name 

Most fondly lipped, and then these accents came : 

' Endymion ! the cave is secreter 

Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir 

IsTo sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise 

Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys 

And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.' 

At that oppressed, I hurried in. — Ah ! where 

Are those swift moments ! Whither are they fled ? 

I'll smile no more, Peona ; nor will wed 

Sorrow, the way to death; but patiently 

Bear up against it : so farewell, sad sigh ; 

And come instead demurest meditation, 

To occupy me wholly, and to fashion 

My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. 

No more will I count over, link by link. 

My chain of grief: no longer strive to find 

A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind 

Blustering about my ears ; ay, thou shalt see, 

Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be ; 

What a calm round of hours shall make my days. 

There is a paly flame of hope that plays 

Where'er I look ; but yet, I'll say 'tis nought — 

And here I bid it die. Have not I caught, 

Already, a more healthy countenance ? 



ENDYMION. 91 

By this tlie sun is setting ; we may chance 
Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car." 

This said, he rose, faint-smiling, like a star 
Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand : 
They stept into the boat, and launched from land. 



BOOK II. , 

O SOVEREIGN power of love ! O grief! O halm ! 

All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm. 

And shadowy, through the mist of passed years : 

For others, good or had, hatred and tears 

Have become indolent ; but touching thine, 

One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine, 

One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days. 

The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze, 

Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blade^, 

Struggling, and blood, and shrieks — all dimly fades 

Into some backward corner of the brain ; 

Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain 

The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. 

Hence, pageant history ! hence, gilded cheat ! 

Swart planet in the universe of deeds ! 

Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds 

Along the pebbled shore of memory ! 

Many old rotten-timbered boats there be 

Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified 

To goodly vessels ; many a sail of pride. 

And golden-keeled is left unlaunched and dry. 



92 E N D Y M 1 N. 

But wherefore this ? What care, though owl did fly 

About the great Athenian admiral's mast ? 

What care, though striding Alexander past 

The Indus with his Macedonian numbers ? 

Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers 

The glutted Cyclops, what care ? — Juliet leaning 

Amid her window-flowers,— sighing, — weaning 

Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow, 

Doth more avail than these : the silver flow 

Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, 

Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den. 

Are things to brood on with more ardency 

Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully 

Must such conviction come upon his head. 

Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread, 

Without one muse's smile, or kind behest, 

The path of love and poes3^ But rest, 

In chafing restlessness, is yet more drear 

Than to be crushed in striving to uprear 

Love's standard on the battlements of song. 

So once more days and nights aid me along, 

iiike legioned soldiers. 

Brain-sick shepherd prince ! 
What promise hast thou faithful guarded since 
The day of sacrifice ? Or have new sorrows 
Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows ? 
Alas ! 'tis his old grief. For many days, 
Has he been wandering in uncertain ways : 
Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks ; 
Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes 
Of the lone wood-cutter ; and listening still, 
Hour after hour, to each lush-leaved rill. 
IN'ow he is sitting by a shady spring, 



i 



ENDYMIO*r. »' 

And elbow-deep with feverous fingering 
Stems tlie upbursting cold : a wild rose-tree 
Pavilions him in bloom, and lie dotli see 
A bud whicli snares his fancy : lo ! but now 
He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water : how ! 
It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight ; 
And, in the middle, there is softly pight 
A golden butterfly ; upon whose wings 
There must be surely charactered strange things, 
For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft. 

Lightly this little herald flew aloft. 
Followed by glad Endymion's clasped hands : 
Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bands 
His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hies 
Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. 
It seemed he flew, the way so easy was ; 
And like a new-born spirit did he pass 
Through the green evening quiet in the sun. 
O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun, 
Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams 
The summer time away. One track unseams 
A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue 
Of ocean fades upon him ; then anew. 
He sinks adown a solitary glen, 
Where there was never sound of mortal men, 
Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences 
Melting to silence, when upon the breeze 
Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet. 
To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet 
"Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide. 
Until it reached a splashing fountain's side 
That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever poured 
Unto the temperate air ; then high it soared 



94 ENDYMION. 

And, downward, suddenly began to dip, 
As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sip 
The crystal spout-head : so it did, with touch 
Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch 
Even with mealy gold the waters clear. 
But, at that very touch, to disappear 
So fairy-quick, was strange ! Bewildered, 
Endymion sought around, and shook each bed 
Of covert flowers in vain ; and then he flung 
Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue, 
"What whisperer disturbed his gloomy rest ? 
It was a nymph uprisen to the breast 
In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood 
'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. 
To him her dripping hand she softly kist, 
And anxiously began to plait and twist 
Her ringlets round her flngers, saying: " Youth ! 
Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth, 
The bitterness of love : too long indeed. 
Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed 
Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would ofl:er 
All the bright riches of my crystal coffer 
To Amphitrite ; all my clear-eyed fish. 
Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, 
Yermilion-tailed, or finned with silvery gauze ; 
Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws 
A virgin-light to the deep ; my grotto-sands. 
Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands 
By my diligent springs : my level lilies, shells. 
My charming-rod, my potent river spells ; 
Yes, everything, even to the pearly cup 
Meander gave me, — for I bubbled up 
To fainting creatures in a desert wild. 
But woe is me, I am but as a child 



E N D Y M 1 N. 95 

To gladden tliee ; and all I dare to say, 

Is, that I pity tliee ; that on this day 

I've been thy guide ; that thou must wander far 

In other regions, past the scanty bar 

To mortal steps, before thou canst be ta'en 

From every wasting sigh, from every pain, 

Into the gentle bosom of thy love. 

Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above : 

But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell ! 

I have a ditty for my hollow cell." 

Hereat she vanished from Endymion's gaze, 
"Who brooded o'er the water in amaze : 
The dashing fount poured on, and where its pool 
Lay, half-asleep, in grass and rushes cool. 
Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still, 
And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill 
Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer. 
Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr 
Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down ; 
And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frown 
Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps. 
Thus breathed he to himself: " Whoso encamps 
To take a fancied city of delight, 
what a wretch is he ! and when 'tis his, 
After long toil and travelling, to miss 
The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile ! 
Yet, for him there's refreshment even in toil : 
Another city doth he set about. 
Free from the smallest pebble-bead of doubt 
That he will seize on trickling honeycombs : 
Alas ! he finds them dry ; and then he foams. 
And onward to another city speeds. 
But this is human life : the war, the deeds, 



96 ENDYMION. 

The disappointment, the anxiety, 

Imagination's struggles, far and nigh, 

All human ; bearing in themselves this good, 

That they are still the air, the subtle food. 

To make us feel existence, and to show 

How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow, 

Whether to weeds or flowers ; but for me, 

There is no depth to strike in : I can see 

jSTought earthly worth my compassing ; so stand 

Upon a misty, jutting head of land — 

Alone ? Xo, no ; and by the Oi^phean lute. 

When mad Eurydice is listening to 't, 

I'd rather stand upon this misty peak 

With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek, 

But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love, 

Than be — I care not what. O meekest dove 

Of heaven ! O Cynthia, ten times bright and fair. 

From thy blue throne, now filling all the air, 

Glance but one little beam of tempered light 

Into my bosom, that the dreadful might 

And tyranny of love be somewhat scared ! 

Yet do not so, sweet queen ; one torment spared, 

Would give a pang to jealous misery. 

Worse than the torment's self: but rather tie 

Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out 

My love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout 

Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou 

Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow 

I^ot to have dipped in love's most gentle stream. 

be propitious, nor severely deem 

My madness impious ; for, by all the stars 

That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars 

That kept my spirit in are burst — that I 

Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky ! 



I 



E N D Y M 1 N. 97 

How beautiful thou art ! The world how deep ! 
How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep 
Around their axle ! Then these gleaming reins, 
How lithe ! When this thy chariot attains 
Its airy goal, Imply some bower veils 
Those twilight eyes ? Those eyes ! — my spirit fails ; 
Dear goddess, help ! or the wide-gaping air 
Will gulf me — help !" — At this, with maddened stare, 
And lifted hands, and trembling lips, he stood ; 
Like old Deucalion mountained o'er the flood, 
Or blind Orion hungry for the morn. 
And, but from the deep cavern there was borne 
A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone ; 
Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passioned moan 
Had more been heard. Thus swelled it forth : " De- 
scend, 
Young mountaineer ! descend where alleys bend 
Into the sparry hollows of the world ! 
Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurled 
As from thy threshold ; day by day hast been 
A little lower than the chilly sheen 
Of icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine arms 
Into the deadening ether that still charms 
Their marble being : now, as deep profound 
As those are high, descend ! He ne'er is crowned 
With immortality, who fears to follow 
Where airy voices lead : so through the hollow, 
The silent mysteries of earth, descend!" 

He heard but the last words, nor could contend 
One moment in reflection : for he fled 
Into the fearful deep, to hide his head 
From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness. 

7 



98 E N D Y M I N. 

'Tvvas far too strange, and wonderful for sadness : 
Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite 
To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light, 
The region ; nor bright, nor sombre wholly, 
But mingled up ; a gleaming melancholy ; 
A dusky empire and its diadems ; 
One faint eternal eventide of gems. 
Ay, millions sparkled on a vein of gold. 
Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told, 
"With all its lines abrupt and angular : 
Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star. 
Through a vast autre ; then the metal woof. 
Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roof 
Curves hugely : now, far in the deep abyss. 
It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss 
Fancy into belief: anon it leads 
Through winding passages, where sameness breeds 
Vexing conceptions of some sudden change ; 
Whether to silver grots, or giant range 
Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge 
Athwart a flood of crystaU On a ridge 
Now fareth he, that o'er the vast beneath 
Towers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seeth 
A hundred waterfalls, whose voices come 
But as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numb 
His bosom grew, when first he, far away, 
Described an orbed diamond,. set to fray 
Old Darkness from his throne : 'twas like the sun 
Uprisen o'er chaos : and with such a stun 
Came the amazement, that, absorbed in it, 
He saw not fiercer wonders — past the wit 
Of any spirit to tell, but one of those 
"Who, when this planet's sphering time doth close, 
"Will be its high remembrancers : who they ? 



E N D Y M 1 N. 91 

The mighty ones who have made eternal day 

For Greece and England. While astonishment 

With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went 

Into a marble gallery, passing through 

A mimic temple, so complete and true 

In sacred custom, that he well nigh-feared 

To search it inwards ; whence far off appeared. 

Through a long pillared vista, a fair shrine, 

And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine, 

A quivered Dian. Stepping awfully. 

The youth approached ; oft turning his veiled eye 

Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old : 

And, when more near against the marble cold 

He had touched his forehead, he began to thread 

All courts and passages, where silence dead, 

Roused by his whispering footsteps, murmured faint ; 

And long he traversed to and fro, to acquaint 

Himself with every mystery, and awe ; 

Till, weary, he sat down before the maw 

Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim. 

To wild uncertainty and shadows grim. 

There, when new wonders ceased to float before, 

And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore 

The journey homeward to habitual self! 

A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf, 

Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-brier, 

Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire. 

Into the bosom of a hated thing. 

What misery most drowningly doth sing 
In lone Endymion's ear, now he has caught 
The goal of consciousness ? Ah, 'tis the thought. 
The deadly feel of solitude : for lo ! 
He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow 



100 END YM ION. 

Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild , jj. 

In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-piled, /(!' , 

The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west, 7 /^ 

Like herded elephants ; nor felt, nor prest 

Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air ; 

But far from such companionship to wear 

An unknown time, surcharged with grief, away, 

Was now his lot. And must he patient stay. 

Tracing fantastic figures with his spear ? 

"E'o !" exclaimed he, "why should I tarry here?" 

!N^o ! loudly echoed times innumerable. 

At which he straightway started, and 'gan tell' 

His paces back into the temple's chief; 

Warming and glowing strong in the belief 

Of help from Dian : so that when again 

He caught her airy form, thus did he plain, 

Moving more near the while : " O Haunter chaste 

Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste, 

Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen 

Art thou now forested ? O woodland Queen, 

What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos ? 

Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos 

Of thy disparted nymphs ? Through what dark tree 

Glimmers thy crescent? Wheresoe'er it be, 

'Tis in the breath of heaven : thou dost taste 

Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost w^aste 

Thy loveliness in dismal elements ; 

But, finding in our green earth sweet contents, 

There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee 

It feels Elysian, how rich to me. 

An exiled mortal, sounds its pleasant name ! 

Within my breast there lives a choking flame — 

O let me cool it zephyr-boughs among ! 

A homeward fever parches up my tongue — 



E N D Y M 1 N. 101 

O let me slake it at the running springs ! 
Upon mj ear a noisy nothing rings — 
O let me once more hear the linnet's note ! 
Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float — 
O let me 'noint them with the heaven's light ! 
Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white ? 
O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice ! 
Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice ? 
O think how this dry palate would rejoice ! 
If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice, 
think how I should love a bed of flowers ! — 
Young goddess ! let me see my native bowers ! 
Deliver me from this rapacious deep !" 

Thus ending loudly, as he would o'erleap 
His destiny, alert he stood : but when 
Obstinate silence came heavily again. 
Feeling about for its old couch of space 
And airy cradle, lowly bowed his face. 
Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill. 
But 'twas not long ; for, sweeter than the rill 
To its old channel, or a swollen tide 
To margin sallows, where the leaves he spied. 
And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns 
Up heaping through the slab : refreshment drowns 
Itself, and strives its own delights to hide — 
Nor in one spot alone ; the floral pride 
In a long whispering birth enchanted grew 
Before his footsteps ; as when heaved anew 
Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the shore, 
Down whose green back the short-lived foam, all hoar, 
Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence. 

Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense, 
Upon his fairy journey on he hastes ; 



102 E N D Y M 1 N. 

So anxious for the end, lie scarcely wastes 

One moment with his hand among the sweets ; 

Onward he goes — he stops — his bosom beats 

As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm 

Of which the throbs were born. This still alarm, 

This sleepy music, forced him walk tiptoe : 

For it came more softly than the east could blow 

Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles ; 

Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles 

Of throned Apollo, could breathe back the lyre 

To seas Ionian and Tyrian. 

O did he ever live, that lonely man, 
Who loved — and music slew not ? 'Tis the pest 
Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest ; 
-That things of delicate and tenderest worth 
Are swallowed all, and made a seared dearth, 
By one consuming flame : it doth immerse 
And suffocate true blessings in a curse. 
Half-happy, by comparison of bliss. 
Is miserable. 'Twas even so with this 
Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian's ear ; 
First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear, 
Vanished in elemental passion. 

And down some swart abysm he had gone, 
Had not a heavenly guide benignant led 
To where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst his head 
Brushing, awakened : then the sounds again 
Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain 
Over a bower, where little space he stood ; 
For as the sunset peeps into a wood. 
So saw he panting light, and towards it went 
Through winding alleys ; and lo, wonderment ! 



ENDYMION. 103. 

Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there, 
Cupids a-slumbering on their pinions fair. 

After a thousand mazes overgone. 
At last, with sudden step, he came upon 
A chamber, myrtle-walled, embowered high, 
Full of light, incense, tender minstrels}^, 
And more of beautiful and strange beside : 
For on a silken couch of rosy pride, 
In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth 
Of fondest beauty ; fonder, in fair sooth. 
Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach : 
And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach. 
Or ripe October's faded marigolds. 
Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds — 
N^ot hiding up an Apollonian curve 
Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerve 
Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light ; 
But rather, giving them to the filled sight 
Ofliciously. Sideway his face reposed 
On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed. 
By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth 
To slumbery pout ; just as the morning south 
Disparts a dew-lipped rose. Above his head, 
Four lily stalks did their white honors wed 
To make a coronal ; and round him grew 
All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue, 
Together intertwined and trammelled fresh : 
The vine of glossy sprout ; the ivy mesh, 
Shading its Ethiop berries ; and woodbine, 
Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine ; 
Convolvulus in streaked vases flush ; 
The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush ; 
And virgin's bower, trailing airily ; 



10* E N D Y M 1 N. 

With others of the sisterhood. Hard hy, 

Stood serene Cupids watching silently. 

One, kneeling to a lyre, touched the strings. 

Muffling to death the pathos with his wings ; 

And, ever and anon, uprose to look 

At the youth's slumber ; while another took 

A willow hough, distilling odorous dew. 

And shook it on his hair ; another flew 

In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise 

Rained violets upon his sleeping eyes. 

At these enchantments, and yet many more, 
The breathless Latmian wondered o'er and o'er ; 
Until impatient in embarrassment. 
He forthright passed, and lightly treading went 
To that same feathered lyrist, who straightway. 
Smiling, thus whispered: " Though from upper day 
Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here 
Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer ! 
For 'tis the nicest touch of human honor, 
When some ethereal and high-favoring donor 
Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense ; 
As now 'tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence 
Was I in no wise startled. So recline 
Upon these living flowers. Here is wine, 
Alive with sparkles — never, I aver, 
Since Ariadne was a vintager, 
So cool a purple : taste these juicy pears. 
Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears 
Were high about Pomona : here is cream, 
Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam ; 
Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimmed 
For the boy Jupiter : and here, undimmed 
By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums 



ENDYMION. 105 

Ready to melt between an infant's gums : 

And here is manna picked from Syrian trees, 

In starlight, by the three Hesperides. 

Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know 

Of all these things around us." He did so, 

Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre ; 

And thus : " I need not any hearing tire 

By telling how the sea-born goddess pined 

For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind 

Him all in all unto her doating self. 

Who would not be so prisoned ? but, fond elf. 

He was content to let her amorous plea 

Faint through his careless arms ; content to see 

An unseized heaven dying at his feet ; 

Content, O fool ! to make a cold retreat, 

"When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn, 

Lay sorrowing ; when every tear was born 

Of diverse passion ; when her lij)s and eyes 

Were closed in sullen moisture, and quick siglis 

Came vexed and pettish through her nostrils small. 

Hush ! no exclaim — yet, justly might'st thou call 

Curses upon his head. — I was half glad, 

But my poor mistress went distract and mad, 

When the boar tusked him : so away she flew 

To Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drew 

Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer's beard ; 

Whereon, it was decreed he should be reared 

Each summer-time to life. Lo ! this is he. 

That same Adonis, safe in the privacy 

Of this still region all his winter-sleep. 

Ay, sleep ; for when our love-sick queen did weep 

Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower 

Healed up the w^ound, and, with a balmy power, 

Medicined death to a lengthened drowsiness : 



106. ENDYMION. 

The which she fills with visions, and doth dress 

In all this quiet luxuiy ; and hath set 

Us young immortals, without any let. 

To watch his slumber through. 'Tis well-nigh passed, 

Even to a moment's filling up, and fast 

She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through 

The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew 

Embowered sports in Cytherea's isle. 

Look, how those winged listeners all this while 

Stand anxious : see ! behold !" — This clamant word 

Broke through the careful silence ; for they heard 

A rustling noise of leaves, and out there fluttered 

Pigeons and doves : Adonis something muttered, 

The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh 

Lay dormant, moved convulsed and gradually 

Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum 

Of sudden voices, echoing, " Come ! come ! 

Arise ! awake ! Clear summer has forth walked 

Unto the clover-sward, and she has talked 

Full soothingly to every nested finch : 

Rise, Cupids ! or we'll give the blue-bell pinch 

To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life begin !" 

At this, from every side they hurried in, 

Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists. 

And doubling overhead their little fists 

In backward yawns. But all were soon alive : 

For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive 

In nectared clouds and curls through water fair, 

So from the arbor roof down swelled an air 

Odorous and enlivening ; making all 

To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call 

For their sweet queen : when lo ! the wreathed green 

Disparted, and far upward could be seen 

Blue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne, 



ENDYMION. 107- 

Wliose silent wheels, fresli wet from clouds of mom, 

Spun off' a drizzling dew, — which falling chill 

On soft Adonis' shoulders, made him still 

Nestle and turn uneasily about. 

Soon were the white doves plain, with necks stretched 

out. 
And silken traces lightened in descent ; 
And soon, returning from love's banishment. 
Queen Venus- leaning downward open-armed : 
Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charmed 
A tumult to his heart, and a new life 
Into his eyes. Ah, miserable strife, 
But for her comforting ! unhappy sight. 
But meeting her blue orbs ! Who, who can write 
Of these first minutes ? The unchariest muse 
To embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse. 

it has ruffled every spirit there. 
Saving love's self, who stands superb to share 
The general gladness : awfully he stands ; 
A sovereign quell is in his waving hands ; 
'No sight can bear the lightning of his bow ; 
His quiver is mysterious, none can know 
AVliat themselves think of it ; from forth his eyes 
There darts strange light of varied hues and dyes: 
A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who 
Look full upon it feel anon the blue 
Of his fair eyes run liquid through their souls. 
Endymion feels it, and no more controls 
The burning prayer within him ; so, bent low. 
He had begun a plaining of his woe. 
But Venus, bending forward, said : " My child, 
Favor this gentle youth ; his days are wild 
With love — he — ^but alas ! too well I see 
Thou know'st the deepness of his misery. 



108 ENDYMION. 

Ah, smile not so, my son : I tell thee true, 

That when through heavy hours I used to rue 

The endless sleep of this new-born Adon', 

This stranger aye I pitied. For upon 

A dreary morning once I fled away 

Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray 

For this my love : for vexing Mars had teased 

Me even to tears ; thence, when a little eased, 

Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood, 

I saw this youth as he despairing stood : 

Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind ; 

Those same full fringed lids a constant blind 

Over his sullen eyes : I saw him throw 

Himself on withered leaves, even as though 

Death had come sudden ; for no jot he moved. 

Yet muttered wildly. I could hear he loved 

Some fair immortal, and that his embrace 

Had zoned her through the night. There is no trace 

Of this in heaven : I have marked each cheek, 

Aiid find it is the vainest thing to seek ; 

And that of all things 'tis kept secretest. 

Endymion ! one day thou wilt be blest : 

So still obey the guiding hand that fends 

Thee safely through these wonders for sweet ends. 

'Tis a concealment needful in extreme ; 

And if I guessed not so, the sunny beam 

Thou shouldst mount up to with me. IS'ow adieu ! 

Here must we leave thee." — At these words up flew 

The impatient doves, up rose the floating car. 

Up went the hum celestial. High afar 

The Latmian saw them minish into nought ; 

And, when all were clear vanished, still he caught 

A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow. 

When all was darkened, with ^tnean throe 



ENDYMION. 109 

The earth closed— gave a solitary moan — 
And left him once again in twilight lone. 

He did not rave, he did not stare aghast, 
For all those visions were o'ergone and past, 
And he in loneliness : he felt assured 
Of happy times, when all he had endured 
"Would seem a feather to the mighty prize. 
So, with unusual gladness, on he hies 
Through caves, and palaces of mottled ore, 
Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquois floor. 
Black polished porticoes of awful shade. 
And, at the last, a diamond balustrade. 
Leading afar past wild magnificence. 
Spiral through ruggedest loop-holes, and thence 
Stretching across a void, then guiding o'er 
Enormous chasms, where, all foam and roar. 
Streams subterranean tease their granite beds ; 
Then heightened just above the silvery heads 
Of a thousand fountains, so that he could dash 
The waters with his spear ; but at the splash. 
Done heedlessly, those spouting columns rose 
Sudden a poplar's height, and 'gan to inclose 
His diamond path with fretwork streaming round 
Alike, and dazzling cool, and with a sound. 
Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet shells 
Welcome the float of Thetis. Long he dwells 
On this delight ; for, every minute's space. 
The streams with changed magic interlace : 
Sometimes like delicatest lattices. 
Covered with crystal vines ; then weeping trees, 
Moving about as in a gentle wind. 
Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refined, 
Poured into shapes of curtained canopies. 



110 ENDYMION. 

Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries 
Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair. 
Swifter than lightning went these wonders rare ; 
And then the water, into stubborn streams 
Collecting, mimicked the wrought oaken beams, 
Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof, 
Of those dusk places in times far aloof 
Cathedrals called. He bade a loath farewell 
To these founts Protean, passing gulf, and dell. 
And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes. 
Half seen through deepest gloom, and grisly gapes. 
Blackening on every side, and overhead 
A vaulted dome like heaven's far bespread 
With starlight gems : ay, all so huge and strange, 
The solitary felt a hurried change 
Working within him into something dreary, — 
Vexed like a morning eagle, lost and weary, 
And purblind amid foggy midnight wolds. 
But he revives at once : for who beholds 
New sudden things, nor casts his mental slough ? 
Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below, 
Came mother Cybele ! alone — alone — 
In sombre chariot ; dark foldings thrown 
About her majesty, and front death-pale. 
With turrets crowned. Four maned lions hale 
The sluggish wheels ; solemn their toothed maws, 
Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws 
Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails 
Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails 
This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away 
In another gloomy arch. 

Wherefore delay, 
Young traveller, in such a mournful place ? 



ENDYMION. Ill 

Art tliou wayworn, or canst not further trace 

The diamond path ? And does it indeed end 

Abrupt in middle air ? Yet earthward bend 

Thy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne 

Call ardently ! He was indeed wayworn ; 

Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost ; 

To cloud-born Jove he bowed, and there crost 

Towards him a large eagle, 'twixt whose wings, 

"Without one impious word, himself he flings, 

Committed to the darkness and the gloom : 

Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom, 

Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fell 

Through unknown things ; till exhaled asphodel, 

And rose, with spicy fannings interbreathed, 

Came swelling forth where little caves were wreathed 

So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seemed 

Large honeycombs of green, and freshly teemed 

With airs delicious. In the greenest nook 

The eagle landed him, and farewell took. 

It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown 
With golden moss. His every sense had grown 
Ethereal for pleasure ; 'bove his head 
Flew a delight half-graspable ; his tread 
Was Hesperean ; to his capable ears 
Silence was music from the holy spheres ; 
A dewy luxury was in his eyes ; 
The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs 
And stirred them faintly. Verdant cave and cell 
He wandered through, oft wondering at such swell 
Of sudden exaltation: but, "Alas!" 
Said he, " will all this gush of feeling pass 
Away in solitude ? And must they wane, 
Like melodies upon a sandy plain, 



112 ENDYMION. 

Without an eclio ? Then shall I be left 

So sad, so melancholy, so bereft ! 

Yet still I feel immortal ! my love, 

My breath of life, where art thou ? High above, 

Dancing before the morning gates of heaven ? 

Or keeping watch among those starry seven. 

Old Atlas' children ? Art a maid of the waters. 

One of shell-winding Triton's bright-haired daughters ? 

Or art, impossible ! a nymph of Dian's, 

Weaving a coronal of tender scions 

For very idleness ? Where'er thou art, 

Methinks it now is at my will to start 

Into thine arms ; to scare Aurora's train, 

And snatch thee from the morning ; o'er the main 

To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off 

From thy sea-foamy cradle ; or to doff 

Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee 'mid fresh leaves. 

'No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives 

Its powerless self: I know this cannot be. 

let me then by some sweet dreaming flee 

To her entrancements : hither sleep awhile ! 

Hither most gentle sleep ! and soothing foil 

For some few hours the coming solitude." 

Thus spake he, and that moment felt endued 
With power to dream deliciously : so wound 
Through a dim passage, searching till he found 
The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where 
He threw himself, and just into the air 
Stretching his indolent arms, he took, bliss ! 
A naked waist : " Fair Cupid, whence is this ?" 
A well-known voice sighed, " Sweetest, here am I!" 
At which soft ravishment, with doting cry 
They trembled to each other. — Helicon ! 




'to sca.r(^ oou,ro/u s Crax/v, 



ENDYMION. 113 

fountained hill ! Old Homer's Helicon ! 

That tliou wouldst spout a little streamlet o'er 

These sorry pages : then the verse would soar 

And sing above this gentle pair, like lark 

Over his nested young : but all is dark 

Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount 

Exhales in mists to heaven. Ay, the count 

Of mighty Poets is made up : the scroll 

Is folded by the Muses ; the bright roll 

Is in Apollo's hand : our dazed eyes 

Have seen a new tinge in the western skies : 

The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet, 

Although the sun of poesy is set. 

These lovers did embrace, and we must weep 

That there is no old power left to steep 

A quill immortal in their joyous tears. 

Long time in silence did their anxious fears 

Question that thus it was ; long time they lay 

Fondling and kissing every doubt away ; 

Long time ere soft caressing sobs began 

To mellow into words, and then there ran 

Two bubbling springs of talk from their sweet lips. 

" O known Unknown ! from whom my being sips 

Such darling essence, wherefore may I not 

Be ever in these arms ? in this sweet spot 

Pillow my chin for ever ? ever press 

These toying hands and kiss their smooth excess ? 

Why not forever and forever feel 

That breath about my eyes ? Ah, thou wilt steal 

Away from me again, indeed, indeed — 

Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed 

My lonely madness. Speak, my kindest fair ! 

Is — is it to be so ? No ! Who will dare 



114 



ENDYMION. 



To pluck tliee from me ? And, of thine own will, 
Full well I feel tliou wouldst not leave me. Still 
Let me entwine tliee surer, surer — now 
How can we part ? Elysium ! "Who art thou ? 
"Who, that thou canst not be forever here, 
Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere ? 
Enchantress ! tell me by this soft embrace, 
By the most soft complexion of thy face. 
Those lips, sliiDpery blisses ! twinkling eyes. 
And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties — 
These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine, 

The passion" ^" Oh loved Ida the divine ! 

Endymion ! dearest ! Ah, unhappy me ! 

His soul will 'scape us — felicity ! 

How he does love me ! His poor temples beat 

To the very tune of love — how sweet, sweet, sweet ! 

Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die ; 

Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by 

In tranced dulness ; speak, and let that spell 

Aflright this lethargy ! I cannot quell 

Its heavy pressure, and will press at least 

My lips to thine, that they may richly feast 

"Until we taste the life of love again. 

What ! dost thou move ? dost kiss ? bliss ; pain ! 

I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive ; 

And so long absence from thee doth bereave 

My soul of any rest : yet must I hence : 

Yet, can I not to starry eminence 

"Uplift thee ; nor for very shame can own 

Myself to thee. Ah, dearest ! do not groan, 

Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy, 

And I must blush in heaven. O that I 

Had done it already ! that the dreadful smiles 

At my lost brightness, my impassioned wiles, 



END YM ION. 115 

Had waned from Olympus' solemn lieiglit, 

And from all serious Gods ; that our deliglit 

Was quite forgotten, save of us alone ! 

And wherefore so ashamed ? 'Tis but to atone 

For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes : 

Yet must I be a coward ! Horror rushes 

Too palpable before me — the sad look 

Of Jove — Minerva's start — no bosom shook 

With awe of purity — no Cupid pinion 

In reverence veiled — my crystalline dominion 

Half lost, and all old hymns madc/iiullity ! 

But what is this to love ? Oh ! I could fly 

With thee into the ken of heavenly powers, 

So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours, 

Press me so sweetly. ISTow I swear at once 

That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce — 

Perha]3s her love like mine is but unknown — 

Oh ! I do think that I have been alone 

In chastity ! yes, Pallas has been sighing, 

While every eye saw me my hair uptying 

With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet love ! 

I was as vague as solitary dove, 

'Nov knew that nests were built. Now a soft kiss — 

Ay, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss, 

An immortality of passion's thine : 

Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine 

Of heaven ambrosial ; and we will shade 

Ourselves whole summers by a river glade ; 

And I will tell thee stories of the sky, 

And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy. 

My happy love will overwing all bounds ! 

O let me melt into thee ! let the sounds 

Of our close voices marry at their birth ; 

Let us entwine hoveringly ! O dearth 



116 ENDYMION. 

Of human words ! roughness of mortal speech ! 

Li spin gs empyrean will I sometimes teach 

Thine honeyed tongue — lute-breathings which I gasp 

To have thee understand, now while I clasp 

Thee thus, and weep for fondness — I am pained, 

Endymion : woe ! woe ! is grief contained 

In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life ?" — 

Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife 

Melted into a languor. He returned 

Entranced vows and tears. 

Ye who have yearned 
With too much passion, will here stay and pity, 
For the mere sake of truth ; as 'tis a ditty 
^ot of these days, but long ago 'twas told 
By a cavern wind unto a forest old ; 
And then the forest told it in a dream 
To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam 
A poet caught as he was journeying 
To Phcebus' shrine ; and in it he did fling 
His weary limbs, bathing an hour's space, 
And after, straight in that inspired place 
He sang the story up into the air, 
Giving it universal freedom. There 
Has it been ever sounding for those ears 
Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheers 
Yon sentinel stars ; and he who listens to it 
Must surely be self-doomed or he will rue it ; 
For quenchless burnings come upon the heart. 
Made fiercer by a fear lest any part 
Should be engulfed in the eddying wind. 
As much as here is penned doth always find 
A resting-place, thus much comes clear and plain ; 
Anon the strange voice is upon the wane — 



ENDYMION. ^ 11' 

And 'tis but echoed from departing sound, 
That the fair visitant at last unwound 
Her gentle limbs, and left the youth asleep. — 
Thus the tradition of the gusty deep. 

l^ow turn we to our former chroniclers. — 
Endymion awoke, that grief of hers 
Sweet paining on his ear : he sickly guessed 
How lone he was once more, and sadly pressed 
His empty arms together, hung his head, 
And most forlorn upon that widowed bed 
Sat silently. Love's madness he had known : 
Often with more than tortured lion's groan 
Meanings had burst from him ; but now that rage 
Had passed away : no longer did he wage 
A rough-voiced war against the dooming stars. 
'No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars : 
The lyre of his soul ^olian tuned 
Forgot all violence, and but communed 
With melancholy thought : O he had swooned 
Drunken from pleasure's nipple ! and his love 
Henceforth was dove-like. — Loth was he to move 
From the imprinted couch, and when he did, 
'Twas with slow, languid paces, and face hid 
In muffling hands. So tempered, out he strayed 
Half seeing visions that might have dismayed 
Alecto's serpents ; ravishments more keen 
Than Hermes' pipe, when anxious he did lean 
Over eclipsing eyes : and at the last 
It was a sounding grotto, vaulted, vast, 
O'erstuclded with a thousand, thousand pearls. 
And crimson-mouthed shells with stubborn curls. 
Of every shape 'and size, even to the bulk 
In which whales harbor close, to brood and sulk 



118 



ENDYMION. 



Against an endless storm. Moreover too, 

Fisli-semblanees, of green and azure hue, 

Ready to snort their streams. In this cool wonder 

Endymion sat down, and 'gan to ponder 

On all his life : his youth, up to the day 

When 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and garlands gay, 

He stepped upon his shepherd throne : the look 

Of his white palace in wild forest nook, 

And all the revels he had lorded there : 

Each tender maiden whom he once thought fair, 

With every friend and fellow-woodlander — 

Passed like a dream before him. Then the spur 

Of the old bards to mighty deeds : his plans 

To nurse the golden age 'mong shepherd clans : 

That wondrous night : the great Pan-festival : 

His sister's sorrow ; and his wanderings all. 

Until into the earth's deep maw he rushed ; 

Then all its buried magic, till it flushed 

High with excessive love. "And now," thought he, 

" How long must I remain in jeopardy 

Of blank amazements that amaze no more ? 

Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the core. 

All other depths are shallow : essences, 

Once spiritual, are like muddy lees, 

Meant but to fertilize my earthly root, 

And make my branches lift a golden fruit 

Into the bloom of heaven : other light, 

Though it be quick and sharp enough to blight 

The Olympian eagle's vision, is dark. 

Dark as the parentage of chaos. Hark ! 

My silent thoughts are echoing from these shells ; 

Or they are but the ghosts, the dying swells 

Of noises far away ? — list !" — Hereupon 

He kept an anxious ear. The humming tone 



ENDYMION. 119 

Came louder, and behold, there as he lay, 
On either side outgushed, with misty spray, 
A copious spring ; and both together dashed 
Swift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and lashed 
Among the conclis and shells of the lofty grot, 
Leaving a trickling dew. At last they shot 
Down from the ceiling's height, pouring a noise 
As of some breathless racers whose hopes poise 
Upon the last few steps, and with spent force 
Along the ground they took a winding course. 
Endymion followed — for it seemed that one 
Ever pursued, the other strove to shun — 
Followed their languid mazes, till well-nigh 
He had left thinking of the mystery, — 
And was now rapt in tender hoverings 
Over the vanished bliss. Ah ! what is it sings 
His dream away ? What melodies are these ? 
They sound as through the whispering of trees, 
]N^ot native in such barren vaults. Give ear ! 

" O Arethusa, peerless nymph ! why fear 
Such tenderness as mine ? Great Dian, why, 
Wliy didst thou hear her prayer ? O that I 
Were rippling round her dainty fairness now. 
Circling about her waist, and striving how 
To entice her to a dive ! then stealing in 
Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin. 
O that her shining hair was in the sun, 
And I distilling from it thence to run 
In amorous rillets down her shrinking form ! 
To linger on her lily shoulders, warm 
Between her kissing breasts, and every charm 
Touch raptured ! — See how painfully I flow : 
Fair maid, be pitiful to my great w^oe. 



120 E N D Y M 1 N. 

Stay, stay tliy weary course, and let me lead, 

A liappy wooer, to the flowery mead 

Where all that beauty snared me." — " Cruel god, 

Desist ! or my oft'ended mistress' nod 

Will stagnate all thy fountains : — tease me not 

With siren words — Ah, have I really got 

Such power to madden thee ? And is it true — 

Away, away, or I shall dearly rue 

My very thoughts : in mercy then away. 

Kindest Alpheus, for should I obey 

My own dear will, 'twould be a deadly bane." — 

" O, Oread-Queen ! would that thou hadst a pain 

Like this of mine, then would I fearless turn 

And be a criminal." — "Alas, I burn, 

I shudder — gentle river, get thee hence. 

Alpheus ! thou enchanter ! every sense 

Of mine was once made perfect in these woods. 

Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent floods, 

Ripe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment gave : 

But ever since I heedlessly did lave 

In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow 

Grew strong within me : wherefore serve me so, 

And call it love ? Alas ! 'twas cruelty. 

Not once more did I close my happy eyes 

Amid the thrush's song. Away ! avaunt ! 

'twas a cruel thing." — "Now thou dost taunt 

So softly, Arethusa, that I think 

If thou wast playing on my shady brink. 

Thou wouldst bathe once again. Innocent maid ! 

Stifle thine heart no more ; — nor be afraid 

Of angry powers : there are deities 

Will shade us with their wings. Those fitful sighs 

'Tis almost death to hear : let me pour 

A dewy balm upon them ! — fear no more. 



E N D Y M I N. 121 

Sweet Aretliusa ! Dian's self must feel, 

Sometimes, these very pangs. Dear maiden, steal 

Blushing into my soul, and let us fly 

These dreary caverns for the open sky. 

I will delight thee all my winding course. 

From the green sea up to my hidden source 

About Arcadian forests ; and will show 

The channels where my coolest waters flow 

Through mossy rocks ; where 'mid exuberant green, 

I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen 

Than Saturn in his exile ; where I brim 

Round flowery islands, and take thence a skim 

Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees 

Buzz from their honeyed wings : and thou shouldst 

please 
Thyself to choose the richest, where w^e might 
Be incense-pillowed every summer night. 
Doft" all sad fears, thou white deliciousness, 
And let us be thus comforted ; unless 
Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless stream 
Hurry distracted from Sol's temperate beam. 
And pour to death along some hungry sands." — 
" What can I do, Alpheus ? Dian stands 
Severe before me : persecuting fate ! 
Unhappy Arethusa ! thou wast late 
A huntress free in — " At this, sudden fell 
Those two sad streams adown a fearful dell. 
The Latmian listened, but he heard no more. 
Save echo, faint repeating o'er and o'er 
The name of Arethusa. On the vero-e 
Of that dark gulf he wept, and said : "I urge 
Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage. 
By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage, 
If thou art powerful, these lovers' pains ; 
And make them happy in some happy plains." 



122 ENDYMION. 

He turned — ^there was a whelming sound — lie slept, 
There was a cooler light ; and so he kept 
Towards it hy a sandy path, and lo ! 
More suddenly than doth a moment go, 
The visions of the earth were gone and fled — 
He saw the giant sea above his head. 



BOOK III. 

There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men 

With most prevailing tinsel : who unpen 

Their baaing vanities, to browse away 

The comfortable green and juicy hay 

From human pastures ; or, torturing fact ! 

Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpacked 

Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe 

Our gold and ripe-eared hopes. With not one tinge 

Of sanctuary splendor, not a sight 

Able to face an owl's, they still are dight 

By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests. 

And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts, 

Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount 

To their spirit's perch, their being's high account. 

Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their thrones— 

Amid the fierce intoxicating tones 

Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabored drums. 

And sudden cannon. Ah ! how all this hums. 

In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone — 

Like thunder-clouds that spake to Babylon, 

And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks. — 

Are then regalities all gilded masks ? 



END YM ION. 123 

]N"o, tliere are throned seats unscalable 

But by a patient wing, a constant spell, 

Or by ethereal things that, unconfined, 

Can make a ladder of the eternal wind, 

And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents 

To watch the abysm-birth of elements. 

Ay, 'bove the withering of old-lipped Fate 

A thousand Powers keep religious state, 

In water, fiery realm, and airy bourne ; 

And, silent as a consecrated urn, 

Hold sphery sessions for a season due. 

Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few ! 

Have bared their operations to this globe — 

Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe 

Our piece of heaven — whose benevolence 

Shakes hand with our own Ceres ; every sense 

Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude. 

As bees gorge full their cells. And by the feud 

'Twixt ISTothing and Creation, I here swear, 

Eterne Apollo ! that thy Sister fair 

Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest. 

Wlien thy gold breath is misting in the west, 

She unobserved steals unto her throne. 

And there she sits most meek and most alone ; 

As if she had not pomp subservient ; 

As if thine eye, high Poet ! was not bent 

Towards her with the Muses in thine heart ; 

As if the minist'ring stars kept not apart, 

"Waiting for silver-footed messages. 

Moon ! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees 

Feel palpitations when thou lookest in : 

O Moon ! old boughs lisp forth a holier din 

The while they feel thine airy fellowship. 

Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip 



124 



E N D Y M 1 N. 



Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine, 
Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine : 
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise. 
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes : 
And yet thy benediction passeth not 
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot 
Wliere pleasure may be sent : the nested wren 
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken, 
And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf 
Takes glimpses of thee ; thou art a relief 
To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps 
Within its pearly house ; — The mighty deeps. 
The monstrous sea is thine — the myriad sea ! 
O Moon ! far spooming Ocean bows to thee, 
And Tellus feels her forehead's cumbrous load. 

Cynthia ! where art thou now ? What far abode 
Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine 
Such utmost beauty ? Alas, thou dost pine 
For one as sorrowful : thy cheek is pale 
For one whose cheek is pale : thou dost bewail 
His tears who weeps for thee ! Where dost thou sigh ? 
Ah ! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye, 
Or, what a thing is love ! 'Tis She, but lo ! 
How changed, how full of ache, how gone in woe ! 
She dies at the thinnest cloud ; her loveliness 
Is wan on Wei^tune's blue : yet there's a stress 
Of love-spangles, just off" yon cape of trees, 
Dancing upon the waves, as if to please 
The curly foam with amorous influence. 
O, not so idle ! for down glancing thence, 
She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about 
O'erwhelming water-courses ; scaring out 
The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright'ning 
Their savage eyes with unaccustomed lightning. 



E N D Y M 1 N. 125 

Where will the splendor he content to reach ? 

O love ! how potent hast thou heen to teach 

Strange journeyings ! Wherever heauty dwells, 

In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells. 

In light, in gloom, in star or hlazing sun, 

Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won. 

Amid his toil thou gavest Leander hreath ; 

Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death ; 

Thou madest Pluto hear thin element ; 

And now, O winged Chieftain ! thou hast sent 

A moonbeam to the deep, deep water-world, 

To find Endymion. 

On gold sand impearled 
With lily shells, and pebbles milky white, 
Poor Cynthia greeted him, and soothed her light 
Against his pallid face : he felt the charm 
To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm 
Of his heart's blood : 'twas very sweet ; he stayed 
His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid 
His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds, 
To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads, 
Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes' tails. 
And so he kept, until the rosy veils 
Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand 
Were lifted from the water's breast, and fanned 
Into sweet air ; and sobered morning came 
Meekly through billows : — w^hen like taper-flame 
Left sudden by a dallying breath of air, 
He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare 
Along his fated way. 

Far had he roamed. 
With nothing save the hollow vast, that foamed 



126 



E N D Y M I N. 



Above, around, and at his feet ; save things 

More dead than Morpheus' imaginings : 

Old rusted anchors, helmets, breastplates large 

Of gone sea-warriors ; brazen beaks and targe ; 

Rudders that for a hundred years had lost 

The sway of human hand : gold vase embossed 

"With long-forgotten story, and wherein 

No reveller had ever dipped a chin 

But those of Saturn's vintage : mouldering scrolls, 

Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls 

Who first were on the earth ; and sculptures rude 

In ponderous stone, developing the mood 

Of ancient J^ox ; — then skeletons of man, 

Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan. 

And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw 

Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe 

These secrets struck into him ; and unless 

Dian had chased away that heaviness 

He might have died : but now, with cheered feel. 

He onward kept ; w^ooing these thoughts to steal 

About the labyrinth in his soul of love. 

" What is there in thee, Moon ! that thou shouldst move 

My heart so potently ? AVlien yet a child 

I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smiled. 

Thou seem'dst my sister : hand in hand we went 

From eve to morn across the firmament. 

No apples would I gather from the tree, 

Till thou hadst cooled their cheeks deliciously : 

No tumbling water ever spake romance. 

But when my eyes with, thine thereon could dance : 

No w^oods were green enough, no bower divine. 

Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine : 

In sowing-time ne'er w^ouldl dibble take, 

Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake ; 



E N D Y M I N. 127 

And, ill the summer-tide of blossoming, 

Ko one but thee hath heard me blithely sing 

And mesh my dewy flowers all the night. 

No melody was like a passing spright 

If it went not to solemnize thy reign. 

Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain 

By thee were fashioned to the self-same end ; 

And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend 

With all my ardors : thou wast the deep glen ; 

Thou wast the mountain-top — the sage's pen — 

The poet's harp — the voice of friends — the sun ; 

Thou wast the river — thou wast glory won ; 

Thou wast my clarion's blast — thou wast my steed — 

My goblet full of w^ine — my topmost deed : — 

Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon ! 

O what a wild and harmonized tune 

My spirit struck from all the beautiful ! 

On some bright essence could I lean, and lull 

Myself to immortality : I prest 

N^ature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. 

But, gentle Orb ! there came a nearer bliss — 

My strange love came — Felicity's abyss ! 

She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away — 

Yet not entirely ; no, thy starry sway 

Has been an under-passion to this hour. 

!N"ow I begin to feel thine orby power 

Is coming fresh upon me : O be kind ! 

Keep back thine influence, and do not blind 

My sovereign vision. — ^Dearest love, forgive 

That I can think away from thee and live ! — 

Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize 

One thought beyond thine argent luxuries ! 

How far beyond !" At this a surprised start 

Frosted the springing verdure of his heart ; 



128 



ENDYMION. 



For as lie lifted up his eyes to swear 

How his own goddess was past all things fair, 

He saw far in the concave green of the sea 

An old man sitting calm and peacefully. 

Upon a weeded rock this old man sat, 

And his white hair was awful, and a mat 

Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet ; 

And, ample as the largest winding-sheet, 

A cloak of blue wrapped up his aged bones, 

O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans 

Of ambitious magic : every ocean-form 

"Was woven in with black distinctness ; storm. 

And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar 

Were emblemed in the woof ; with every shape 

That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape. 

The gulphing whale was like a dot in the spell. 

Yet look upon it, and 'twould size and swell 

To its huge self; and the minutest fish 

Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish. 

And show his little eye's anatomy. 

Then there was pictured the regality 

Of Neptune ; and the sea-nymphs round his state. 

In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait. 

Beside this old man lay a pearly wand. 

And ill his lap a book, the which he conned 

So steadfastly, that the new denizen 

Had time to keep him in amazed ken. 

To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe. 

The old man raised his hoary head and saw 
The wildered stranger — seeming not to see. 
His features were so lifeless. Suddenly 
He woke as from a trance ; his snow-white brows 
Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs 



ENDYMION. 129 

Furrowed deep wrinkles in his foreliead large, 

Whicli kept as fixedly as roclvy marge, 

Till round liis withered lips had gone a smile. 

Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil 

Had watched for years in forlorn hermitage, 

Who had not from mid-life to utmost age 

Eased in one accent his o'erburdened soul. 

Even to the trees. He rose : he grasped his stole, 

With convulsed clenches waving it abroad, 

And in a voice of solemn joy, that awed 

Echo into oblivion, he said : — 

" Thou art the man ! l^ow shall I lay my head 
In peace upon my watery pillow : now 
Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow. 
O Jove ! I shall be young again, be young ! 

shell-borne I^eptune, I am pierced and stung 
With new-born life ! What shall I do ? Where go, 
When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe ? — 

I'll swim to the sirens, and one moment listen 

Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten ; 

Anon upon that giant's arm I'll be, 

That writhes about the roots of Sicily ; 

To northern seas I'll in a twinkling sail. 

And mount upon the snortings of a whale 

To some black cloud ; thence down I'll madly sweep 

On forked lightning, to the deepest deep. 

Where through some sucking pool I will be hurled 

With rapture to the other side of the world ! 

0, I am full of gladness ! Sisters three, 

1 bow full-hearted to your old decree ! 

Yes, every god be thanked, and power benign, 
For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine. 

9 



130 END YM I ON. 

Thou art tlie man !" Endjmion started back 

Dismayed ; and like a wretch from whom the rack 

Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony, 

Muttered : " What lonely death am I to die 

In this cold region ? Will he let me freeze. 

And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas ? 

Or will he touch me with his searing hand. 

And leave a black memorial on the sand ? 

Or tear me piecemeal with a bony saw, 

And keep me as a chosen food to draw 

His magain fish through hated fire and flame ? 

O misery of hell ! resistless, tame. 

Am I to be burned up ? No, I will shout. 

Until the gods through heaven's blue look out ! — 

Tartarus ! but some few days agone 
Her soft arms were entwining me, and on 

Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves ; 
Her lips were all my own, and — ah, ripe sheaves 
Of happiness ! ye on the stubble droop, 
But never may be garnered. I must stoop 
My head, and kiss death's foot. Love ! love, farewell ! 
Is there no hope from thee ? This horrid spell 
Would melt at thy sweet breath. — By Dian's hind 
Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind 

1 see thy streaming hair ! and now, by Pan, 
I care not for this old mysterious man !" 

He spake, and walking to that aged form, 
Looked high defiance. Lo ! his heart 'gan warm 
With pity, for the gray-haired creature wept. 
Had he then wronged a heart where sorrow ke]3t ? 
Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought 
Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought. 
Convulsion to a mouth of many years ? 
He had in truth ; and he was ripe for tears. 



ENDYMION. 131 

The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt 
Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt 
About his large dark locks, and faltering spake : 

" Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' sake ! 
I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel 
A very brother's yearning for thee steal 
Into mine own : for why ? thou openest 
The prison-gates that have so long oppressed 
My weary watching. Though thou know'st it not, 
Thou art commissioned to this fated spot 
For great enfranchisement. weep no more ! 
I am a friend to love, to loves of yore : 
Ay, hadst thou never loved an unknown power, 
I had been grieving at this joyous hour. 
But even now, most miserable old, 
I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold 
Gave mighty pulses : in this tottering case 
Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays 
As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid. 
For thou shalt hear this secret all displayed, 
ITow as we speed towards our joyous task." 

So saying, this young soul in age's mask 
Went forward with the Carian side by side : 
Resuming quickly thus ; while ocean's tide 
Hung swollen at their backs, and jewelled sands 
Took silently their foot-prints. 

" My soul stands 
Now past the midway from mortality. 
And so I can prepare without a sigh 
To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain. 
I was a fisher once, upon this main, 



132 ENDYMION. 

And my boat danced in every creek and bay ; 

Rough billows were my home by night and day, — 

The sea-gulls not more constant ; for I had 

!No housing from the storm and tempests mad, 

But hollow rocks, — and they were palaces 

Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease : 

Long years of misery have told me so. 

Ay, thus it was one thousand years ago. 

One thousand years ! — ^Is it then possible 

To look so plainly through them ? to dispel 

A thousand years with backward glance sublime ? 

To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime 

From oft' a crystal pool, to see its deep, 

And one's own image from the bottom peep ? 

Yes : now I am no longer wretched thrall. 

My long captivity and moanings all 

Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum. 

The which I breathe away, and thronging come 

Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures. 

" I touched no lute, I sang not, trod no measures : 
I was a lonely youth on desert shores. 
My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars. 
And craggy isles, and seamews' plaintive cry 
Plaining discrepant between sea and sky. 
Dolphins were still my playmates ; shapes unseen 
Would let me feel their scales of gold and green, 
Nor be my desolation ; and, full oft. 
When a dread waterspout had reared aloft 
Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe 
To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe 
My life away like a vast sponge of fate. 
Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state, 
Has dived to its foundations, gulfed it down, 
And left me tossing safely. But the crown 



1 



ENDYMION. 133 

Of all my life was utmost quietude : 

More did I love to lie in cavern rude, 

Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice, 

And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice ! 

There blushed no summer eve but I would steer 

My skiff along green shelving coasts to hear 

The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery steep. 

Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep : 

And never was a day of summer shine. 

But I beheld its birth upon the brine : 

For I would watch all night to see unfold 

Heaven's gates, and ^tlion snort his morning gold 

Wide o'er the swelling streams : and constantly 

At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea, 

My nets would be spread out, and I at rest. 

The poor folk of the sea-country I blest 

With daily boon of fish most delicate : 

They knew not whence this bounty, and elate 

Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach. 

"Why was I not contented ? Wlierefore reach 
At things which, but for thee, Latmian ! 
Had been my dreary death ! Fool ! I began 
To feel distempered longings : to desire 
The utmost privilege that ocean's sire 
Could grant in benediction : to be free 
Of all his kingdom. Long in misery 
I wasted, ere in one extremest fit 
I plunged for life or death. To interknit 
One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff 
Might seem ^ work of pain ; so not enough 
Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt. 
And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt 
Whole days and days in sheer astonishment ; 
Forgetful utterly of self-intent ; 



134 E N D Y M I N. 

Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. 

Then, like a new-fledged bird that first doth show 

His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, 

I tried in fear the pinions of my will. 

'Twas freedom ! and at once I visited 

The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed. 

No need to tell thee of them, for I see 

That thou hast been a witness — it must be 

For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth, 

By the melancholy corners of that mouth. 

So I will in my story straightway pass 

To more immediate matter. Woe, alas ! 

That love should be my bane ! Ah, Scylla fair ! 

Why did poor Glaucus ever — ever dare 

To sue thee to his heart ? Kind stranger-youth ! 

I loved her to the very white of truth, 

And she would not conceive it. Timid thing ! 

She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing. 

Round every isle, and point, and promontory. 

From where large Hercules wound up his story 

Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew 

The more, the more I saw her dainty hue 

Gleam delicately through the azure clear : 

Until 'twas too fierce agony to bear ; 

And in that agony, across my grief 

It flashed, that Circe might find some relief — 

Cruel enchantress ! So above the water 

I reared my head, and looked for Phoebus' daughter. 

^sea's isle was wondering at the moon : — 

It seemed to whirl around me, and a swoon 

Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power. 

"When I awoke, 'twas in a twilight bower ; 
Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees, 
Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees. 



END YM ION. 135 

How sweet, and sweeter ! for I heard a lyre, 

And over it a sighing voice expire. 

It ceased — I caught light footsteps ; and anon 

The fairest face that morn e'er looked upon 

Pushed through a screen of roses. Starry Jove ! 

With tears, and smiles, and honey-words she wove 

A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all 

The range of flowered Elysium. Thus did fall 

The dew of her rich speech : ' Ah ! art awake ? 

Oh let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's sake ! 

I am so oppressed with joy ! Why, I have shed 

An urn of tears^ as though thou wert cold dead ; 

And now I find thee living, I will pour 

From these devoted eyes their silver store, 

Until exhausted of the latest drop. 

So it will pleasure , thee, and force thee stop 

Here, that I too may live : but if beyond 

Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond 

Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme ; 

If thou art ripe to taste a long love-dream ; 

If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardor mute, 

Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit, 

let me pluck it for thee !' Thus she linked 

Her charming syllables, till indistinct 

Their music came to my o'er-sweetened soul ; 

And then she hovered over me, and stole 

So near, that if no nearer it had been 

This furrowed visage thou hadst never seen. 

" Young man of Latmos ! thus particular 
Am I, that thou mayest plainly see how far 
This fierce temptation went : and thou may'st not 
Exclaim, How, then, was Scylla quite forgot ? 



136 ENDYMION. 

" Who could resist ? Who in this universe ? 
She did so breathe ambrosia ; so immerse 
My fine existence in a golden clime. 
She took me like a child of suckling time, 
And cradled me in roses. Thus condemned, 
The current of my former life was stemmed. 
And to this arbitrary queen of sense 
I bowed a tranced vassal : nor woukl thence 
Have moved, even though Amphion's harp had wooed 
Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude. 
For as Apollo each eve doth devise 
A new apparelling for western skies ; 
So every eve, nay, every spendthrift hour 
Shed balmy consciousness within that bower. 
And I was free of haunts umbrageous ; 
Could wander in the mazy forest-house 
Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antlered deer. 
And birds from coverts innermost and drear 
Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow — 
To me new-born delights ! 

" Now let me borrow, 
For moments few, a temperament as stern 
As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn 
These uttering lips, while I in calm speech tell 
How specious heaven was changed to real hell. 

" One morn she left me sleeping : half awake 
I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to slake 
My greedy thirst with nectarous camel-draughts ; 
But she was gone. Whereat the barbed shafts 
Of disappointment stuck in me so sore. 
That out I ran and searched the forest o'er. 
Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom 
Damp awe assailed me, for there 'gan to boom 



E N D Y M 1 N. 137 

A sound of moan, an agony of sound, 

Sepulchral from the distance all around. 

Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and rumbled 

That fierce complain to silence : while I stumbled 

Down a precipitous path, as if impelled. 

I came to a dark valley. — Groanings swelled 

Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew. 

The nearer I approached a flame's gaunt blue, 

That glared before me through a thorny brake. 

This fire, like the eye of gordian snake, 

Bewitched me towards ; and I soon was near 

A sight too fearful for the feel of fear : 

In thicket hid I cursed the haggard scene — 

The banquet of my arms, my arbor queen, 

Seated upon an uptorn forest root ; 

And all around her shapes, wizard and brute. 

Laughing, and wailing, grovelling, serpenting, 

Showing tooth, tusk, and venom -bag, and sting. 

O such deformities ! old Charon's self. 

Should he give up awhile his penny pelf. 

And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian, 

It could not be so fantasied. Fierce, wan, 

And tyrannizing was the lady's look. 

As over them a gnarled staft' she shook. 

Oft-times upon the sudden she laughed out. 

And from a basket emptied to the rout 

Clusters of grapes, the which they ravened quick 

And roared for more ; with many a hungry lick 

About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow. 

Anon she took a branch of mistletoe. 

And emptied on't a black dull-gurgling phial : 

Groaned one and all, as if some piercing trial 

Was sharpening for their pitiable bones. 

She lifted up the charm : appealing groans 



las 



E N D Y M 1 N. 



From their poor breasts went suing to her ear 

In vain ; remorseless as an infant's bier 

She whisked against their eyes the sooty oil. 

Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil, 

Increasing gradual to a tempest rage, 

Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pilgrimage ; 

Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat 

And puff from the tail's end to stifled throat : 

Then was appalling silence : then a sight 

More wildering than all that hoarse affright ; 

For the whole herd, as by a whirlwind writhen. 

Went through the dismal air like one huge Python 

Antagonizing Boreas, — and so vanished. 

Yet there was not a breath of wind : she banished 

These phantoms with a nod. Lo ! from the dark 

Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark, 

With dancing and loud revelry, — and went 

Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent. — 

Sighing an elephant appeared and bowed 

Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud 

In human accent : ' Potent goddess ! chief 

Of pains resistless ! make my being brief, 

Or let me from this heavy prison fly : 

Or give me to the air, or let me die ! 

I sue not for my happy crown again ; 

I sue not for my phalanx on the plain ; 

I sue not for my lone, my widowed wife : 

I sue not for my ruddy drops of life. 

My children fair, my lovely girls and boys ! 

I will forget them ; I will pass these joys ; 

Ask nought so heavenward, so too — too high : 

Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die, 

Or be delivered from this cumbrous flesh, 

From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh. 



ENDYMION. 139 

And merely given to tlie cold bleak air. 

Have mercy, Goddess ! Circe, feel my prayer !' 

" That curst magician's name fell icy numb 
Upon my wild conjecturing : truth had come 
Naked and sabre-like against my heart. 
I saw a fuiy whetting a death-dart ; 
And my slain spirit, overwrought with fright, 
Fainted away in that dark lair of night. 
Think, my deliverer, how desolate 
My waking must have been ! disgust and hate, 
And terrors manifold divided me 
A spoil amongst them. I prepared to flee 
Into the dungeon core of that wild wood : 
I fled three days — when lo ! before me stood 
Glaring the angry witch. Dis, even now, 
A clammy dew is beading on my brow, 
At mere remembering her pale laugh, and curse. 
' Ha ! ha ! Sir Dainty ! there must be a nurse 
Made of rose-leaves and thistle-down, express, 
To cradle thee, my sweet, and lull thee : yes, 
I am too flinty-hard for thy nice touch : 
My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch. 
So, fairy-thing, it shall have lullabies 
Unheard of yet ; and it shall still its cries 
Upon some breast more lily-feminine. 
Oh, no — it shall not pine, and pine, and pine. 
More than one pretty, trifling thousand years ; 
And then 'twere pity, but fate's gentle shears 
Cut short its immortality. Sea-flirt ! 
Young dove of the waters ! truly I'll not hurt 
One hair of thine : see how I weep and sigh. 
That our heart-broken parting is so nigh. 
And must we part ? Ah, yes, it must be so. 
Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe, 



140 



E N D Y M 1 N. 



Let me sob over thee my last adieus, 

And speak a blessing : Mark me ! tliou bast tbews 

Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race : 

But such a love is mine, that here I chase 

Eternally away from thee all bloom 

Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb. 

Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery vast ; 

And there, ere many days be overpast. 

Disabled age shall seize thee ; and even then 

Thou shalt not go the way of aged men ; 

But live and wither, cripple and still breathe 

Ten hundred years : which gone, I then bequeath 

Thy fragile bones to unknown burial. 

Adieu, sweet love, adieu !' — As shot stars fall. 

She fled ere I could groan for mercy. Stung 

And poisoned was my spirit : despair sung 

A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell. 

A hand was at my shoulder to compel 

My sullen steps ; another 'fore my eyes 

Moved on with pointed finger. In this guise 

Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam 

I found me ; by my fresh, my native home, 

Its tempering coolness, to my life akin. 

Came salutary as I waded in ; 

And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave 

Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave 

Large froth before me, while there yet remained 

Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drained. 

" Young lover, I must weep — such hellish spite 
With dry cheek who can tell ? "While thus my might 
Proving upon this element, dismayed. 
Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid ; 
I looked — 'twas Scylla ! Cursed, cursed Circe ! 
vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy ! 



ENDYMION. ' 141 

Could not thy harshest vengeance be content, 

But thou must nip this tender innocent 

Because I loved her ? — Cold, cold indeed 

Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed 

The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she was 

I clung about her waist, nor ceased to pass 

Fleet as an arrow through unfathomed brine, 

Until there shone a fabric crystalline, 

Ribbed and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl. 

Headlong I darted : at one eager swirl 

Gained its bright portal, entered, and behold ! 

'Twas vast, and desolate, and icy-cold ; 

And all around — But wherefore this to thee 

Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see ? — 

I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled. 

My fevered parchings up, my scathing dread 

Met palsy half way : soon these limbs became 

Gaunt, withered, sapless, feeble, cramped, and lame. 

"Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space. 
Without one hope, without one faintest trace 
Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble 
Of colored phantasy ; for I fear 'twould trouble 
Thy brain to loss of reason : and next tell 
How a restoring chance came down to quell 
One half of the witch in me. 

" On a day, 
Sitting upon a rock above the spray, 
I saw grow up from the horizon's brink 
A gallant vessel : soon she seemed to sink 
Away from me again, as though her course 
Had been resumed in spite of hindering force — 
So vanished : and not long, before arose 
Dark clouds, and muttering of winds morose. 



142 



ENDYMION. 



Old Mollis would stifle liis mad spleen, 
But could not, therefore, all the billows green 
Tossed up the silver spume against the clouds. 
The tempest came : I saw that vessel's shrouds 
In perilous bustle ; while upon the deck 
Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the wreck ; 
The final gulfing ; the poor struggling souls ; 
I heard their cries amid loud thunder-rolls. 

they had all been saved but crazed eld 
Annulled my vigorous cravings : and thus quelled 
And curbed, think on't, O Latmian ! did I sit 
Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit 

Against that hell-born Circe. The crew had gone, 

By one and one, to pale oblivion ; 

And I was gazing on the surges prone, 

With many a scalding tear, and many a groan, 

When at my feet emerged an old man's hand, 

Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand. 

1 knelt with pain — reached out my hand — had grasped 
These treasures — touched the knuckles — they un- 
clasped — 

I caught a finger : but the downward weight 

O'erpowered me — it sank. Then 'gan abate 

The storm, and through chill aguish gloom outburst 

The comfortable sun. I was athirst 

To search the book, and in the warming air 

Parted its dripping leaves with eager care. 

Strange matters did it treat of, and drew on 

My soul page after page till well-nigh won 

Into forgetfulness ; when, stupified, 

I read these words, and read again, and tried 

My eyes against the heavens, and read again. 

O what a load of misery and pain 

Each Atlas-line bore ofi'! — a shine of hope 

Came gold around me, cheering me to cope 



^> 



ENDYMION. 143 

Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend ! 
For thou hast brought their promise to an end. 

"In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch. 
Doomed with enfeebled carcass to outstretch 
His loathed existence through ten centuries, 
And then to die alone. Who can devise 
A total opposition. No one. So 
One million times ocean must ebb and flow, 
And he oppressed. Yet he shall not die, 
These things accomplished : — If he utterly 
Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds 
The meanings of all motions, shapes, and sounds ; 
If he explores all forms and substances 
Straight homeward to their symbol-essences ; 
He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief. 
He must pursue this task of joy and grief 
Most piously; — all lovers tempest-tost. 
And in the savage overwhelming lost, 
He shall deposit side by side, until 
Time's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil : 
Which done, and all these labors ripened, 
A youth, by heavenly power loved and led, 
Shall stand before him ; whom he shall direct 
How to consummate all. The youth elect 
Must do the thing, or both will be destroyed." 

" Then," cried the young Endymion, overjoyed, 
" We are twin brothers in this destiny ! 
Say, I entreat thee, what achievement high 
Is, in this restless world, for me reserved. 
What ! if from thee my wandering feet had swerved. 
Had we both perished ?" — "Look!" the sage replied, 
" Dost thou not mark a gleaming through the tide, 



144 ENDYMION. 

Of divers brilliances ? 'tis the edifice 

I told tliee of, where lovely Scylla lies ; 

And where I have enshrined piously 

All lovers, whc^m fell storms have doomed to die 

Throughout my bondage." Thus discoursing, on 

They went till unobscured the porches shone ; 

"Which hurryingly they gained, and entered straight. 

Sure never since King Neptune held his state 

"Was seen such wonder underneath the stars. 

Turn to some level plain where haughty Mars 

Has legioned all his battle ; and behold 

How every soldier, with firm foot, doth hold 

His even breast : see, many steeled squares. 

And rigid ranks of iron — whence who dares 

One step ? Imagine further, line by line, 

These warrior thousands on the field supine : — 

So in that crystal place, in silent rows, 

Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and woes. 

The stranger from the mountains, breathless, traced 

Such thousands of shut eyes in order placed ; 

Such ranges of white feet, and patient lips 

All ruddy, — for here death no blossom nips. 

He marked their brows and foreheads ; saw their hair 

Put sleekly on one side with nicest care ; 

And each one's gentle wrists, with reverence. 

Put cross-wise to its heart. 

"Let us commence 
("Whispered the guide, stuttering with joy) even now." 
He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough, 
Began to tear his scroll in pieces small. 
Uttering the while some mumblings funeral. 
He tore it into pieces small as snow 
That drifts unfeathered when bleak northerns blow ; 



E N D Y M I N. 145 

And having done it, took liis dark blue cloak 

And bound it round Endymion : then struck 

His wand against the empty air, times nine. 

" What more there is to do, young man, is thine : 

But first a little patience ; first undo 

This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue. 

Ah, gentle ! 'tis as weak as spider's skein ; 

And shouldst thou break it^ — ^What, is it done so clean ? 

A power o'ershadows thee ! Oh, brave ! 

The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave. 

Here is a shell ; 'tis pearly blank to me, 

Nor marked with any sign or charactery — 

Canst thou read aught ? read for pity's sake ! 

Olympus ! we are safe ! Now, Carian, break 

This wand against yon lyre on the pedestal." 

'Twas done : and straight with sudden swell and fall 
Sweet music breathed her soul away, and sighed 
A lullaby to silence. — " Youth ! now strew 
These minced leaves on me, and passing through 
Those files of dead, scatter the same around. 
And thou wilt see the issue." — 'Mid the sound 
Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart, 
Endymion from Glaucus stood apart. 
And scattered in his face some fragments light. 
How lightning-swift the change ! a youthful wight 
Smiling beneath a coral diadem. 
Out-sparkling sudden like an upturned gem. 
Appeared, and, stepping to a beauteous corse. 
Kneeled down beside it, and with tenderest force 
Pressed its cold hand, and wept — and Scylla sighed ! 
Endymion, with quick hand, the charm applied — 
The nymph arose: he left them to their joy, 
And onward went upon liis high employ, 

10 



146 END YM I ON. 

Showering those powerful fragments on the dead, 

And, as he passed, each lifted up his head. 

As doth a flower at Apollo's touch. 

Death felt it to his inwards ; 'twas too much : 

Death fell a-weeping in his charnel-house. 

The Latmian persevered along, and thus 

All were reanimated. There arose 

A noise of harmony, pulses and throes 

Of gladness in the air — while many, who 

Had died in mutual arms devout and true. 

Sprang to each other madly ; and the rest 

Felt a high certainty of being blest. 

They gazed upon Endymion. Enchantment 

Grew drunken, and would have its head and bent. 

Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers. 

Budded, and swelled, and, full-blown, shed full showers 

Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds divine. 

The two deliverers tasted a pure wine 

Of happiness, from fairy press oozed out. 

Speechless they eyed each other, and about 

The fair assembly wandered to and fro, 

Distracted with the richest overflow 

Of joy that ever poured from heaven. 

" Away !" 

Shouted the new-born god ; " Follow, and pay 

Our piety to Neptunus supreme !" — 

Then Scylla, blushing sweetly from her dream, 

They led on first, bent to her meek surprise, 

Through portal columns of a giant size 

Into the vaulted, boundless emerald. 

Joyous all followed, as the leader called, 

Down marble steps ; pouring as easily 

As hour-glass sand — and fast, as you might see 



ENDYMION. l^'; 

Swallows obeying tlie south summer's call, 
Or swans upon a gentle waterfall. 

Thus went that beautiful multitude, nor far, 
Ere from among some rocks of glittering spar, 
Just within ken, they saw descending thick 
Another multitude. Whereat more quick 
Moved either host. On a wide sand they met, 
And of those numbers every eye was wet ; 
For each their old love found. A murmuring rose 
Like what was never heard in all the throes 
Of wind and waters : 'tis past human wit 
To tell ; 'tis dizziness to think of it. 

This mighty consummation made, the host 
Moved on for many a league ; and gained and lost 
Huge sea-marks ; vanward swelling in array. 
And from the rear diminishing away, 
Till a faint dawn surprised them. Glaucus cried, 
"Behold ! behold, the palace of his bride ! 
God N'eptune's palaces." With noise increased, 
They shouldered on towards that brightening east. 
At every onward step proud domes arose 
In prospect, diamond gleams and golden glows 
Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling. 
Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring. 
Still onward ; still the splendor gradual swelled. 
Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld 
By jasper pillars, letting through their shafts 
A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts 
Each gazer drank ; and deeper drank more near : 
For what poor mortals fragment up, as mere 
As marble was there lavish, to the vast 
Of one fair palace, that far, far surpassed, 



148 



E N D Y M I N. 



Even for common bulk, those olden three, 
Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh. 

As large, as bright, as colored as the bow 
Of Iris, when unfading it doth show 
Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch 
Through which this Paphian army took its march, 
Into the outer courts of Neptune's state : 
"Whence could be seen, direct, a golden gate. 
To which the leaders sped ; but not half raught 
Ere it burst open swift as fairy thought. 
And made those dazzled thousands veil their eyes 
Like callow eagles at the first sunrise. 
Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze 
Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the blaze, 
And then, behold ! large Neptune on his throne 
Of emerald deep : yet not exalt alone : 
At his right hand stood winged Love, and on 
His left sat smiling Beauty's paragon. 

Far as the mariner on highest mast 
Can see all round upon the calmed vast. 
So wide was Neptune's hall : and as the blue 
Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew 
Their doming curtains, high, magnificent. 
Awed from the throne aloof; — and when storm-rent 
Disclosed the thunder-gloomings in Jove's air ; 
But soothed as now, flashed sudden everywhere, 
Noiseless, submarine cloudlets, glittering 
Death to a human eye : for there did spring 
From natural west, and east, and south, and north, 
A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth 
A golden-green zenith 'hove the Sea-God's head. 
Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread 



END YM ION. 149 

As breezeless lake, on which the slim canoe 
Of feathered Indian darts about, as through 
The delicatest air : air verily. 
But for the portraiture of clouds and sky : 
This palace floor breath-air, — but for the amaze 
Of deep-seen wonders motionless, — and blaze 
Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes, 
Globing a golden sphere. 

They stood in dreams 
Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang ; 
The [N'ereids danced ; the Sirens faintly sang ; 
And the great Sea-King bowed his dripping head. 
Then Love took wing, and from his pinions shed 
On all the multitude a nectarous dew. 
The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew 
Fair Scylla and her guides to conference ; 
And when they reached the throned eminence 
She kissed the sea-nymph's cheek, who sat her down 
A toying with the doves. Then, " Mighty crown 
And sceptre of this kingdom !" Venus said, 
" The vows were on a time to N^ais paid : 
Behold!" — Two copious tear-drops instant fell 
From the God's large eyes ; he smiled delectable, 
And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. — 
" Endymion ! Ah ! still wandering in the bands 
Of love ? Now this js cruel. Since the hour 
I met thee in earth's bosom, all my power 
Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not yet 
Escaped from dull mortality's harsh net ? 
A little patience, youth ! 'twill not be long, 
Or I am skilless quite : an idle tongue, 
A humid eye, and steps luxurious, 
"Where these are new and strange, are ominous. 



150 E N D Y M 1 N. 

Ay, I have seen these signs in one of heaven, 
When others were all blind ; and were I given 
To utter secrets, haply I might say 
Some pleasant words : but Love will have his day. 
So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee soon, 
Even in the passing of thine honey-moon. 
Visit my Cytherea : thou wilt find 
Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind ; 
And pray persuade wdth thee — Ah, I have done, 
All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son !" — 
Thus the fair Goddess : while Endymion 
Knelt to receive those accents halcyon. 

Meantime a glorious revelry began 
Before the Water-Monarch. Nectar ran 
In courteous fountains to all cups outreached ! 
And plundered vines, teeming exhaustless, pleached 
New growth about each shell and pendent lyre ; 
The which, in entangling for their fire. 
Pulled down fresh foliage and coverture 
For dainty toy. Cupid, empire-sure. 
Fluttered and laughed, and oft-times through the 

throng 
Made a delighted way. Then dance, and song. 
And garlanding, grew wild ; and pleasure reigned. 
In harmless tendril they each other chained. 
And strove who should be smothered deepest in 
Fresh crush of leaves. 

O 'tis a very sin 
For one so weak to venture his poor verse 
In such a place as this. do not curse. 
High Muses ! let him hurry to the ending. 

All suddenly were silent. A soft blending 



1 



E N D Y M 1 N. 161 

Of dulcet instruments came charmingly ; 
And then a hymn. 

" King of the stormy sea ! 
Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor 
Of elements ! Eternally before 
Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn rock, 
At thy feared trident shrinking, doth unlock 
Its deep foundations, hissing into foam. 
All mountain-rivers lost, in the wide home 
Of thy capacious bosom ever flow. 
Thou fi'ownest, and old ^olus thy foe 
Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the gruflt' complaint 
Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint 
When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam 
Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team 
Gulfs in the morning light, and scuds along 
To bring thee nearer to that golden song 
Apollo singeth, while his chariot 
Waits at the doors of heaven. Thou art not 
For scenes like this : an empire stern hast thou ; 
And it hath furrowed that large front : yet now, 
As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit 
To blend and interknit 
Subdued majesty with this glad time. 
O shell-born King sublime ! 
We lay our hearts before thee evermore — 
We sing, and we adore ! 

" Breathe softly, flutes ; 
Be tender of your strings, ye soothing lutes ; 
Nor be the trumpet heard ! vain, O vain ! 
Not flowers budding in an April rain, 



152 ENDYMION. 

Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's flow — 

No, nor tlie ^olian twang of Love's own bow, 

Can mingle music fit for the soft ear 

Of goddess Cytherea ! 

Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes 

On our soul's sacrifice. 

" Bright- winged child ! 
"Who has another care when thou hast smiled ? 
Unfortunates on earth, we see at last 
All death-shadows, and glooms that overcast 
Our spirits, fanned away by thy light pinions. 
sweetest essence ! sweetest of all minions ! 
God of warm pulses, and dishevelled hair, 
And panting bosoms bare ! 
Dear unseen light in darkness ! eclipser 
Of light in light ! delicious poisoner ! 
Thy venomed goblet will we quaff" until 
We fill— we fill ! 
And by thy Mother's lips " 

"Was heard no more 
For clamor, when the golden palace-door 
Opened again, and from without, in shone 
A new magnificence. On oozy throne 
Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old. 
To take a latest glimpse at his sheep-fold, 
Before he went into his quiet cave 
To muse for ever — Then, a lucid wave, 
Scooped from its trembling sisters of mid-sea, 
Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty 
Of Doris, and the ^gean seer, her spouse — 
Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs, 



E N D Y M I N. 153 

Theban Ampliion leaning on his lute : 
His fingers Avent across it — All were mute 
To gaze on Ampliitrite, queen of pearls, 
And Thetis pearly too. — 

The palace whirls 
Around giddy Endymion ; seeing he 
Was there far strayed from mortality. 
He could not bear it — shut his eyes in vain ; 
Imagination gave a dizzier pain. 
"01 shall die ! sweet Venus, be my stay ! 
Where is my lovely mistress ? Well-away ! 
I die — I hear her voice — I feel my wing — " 
At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden ring 
Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife 
To usher back his spirit into life : 
But still he slept. At last they interwove 
Their cradling arms, and purposed to convey 
Towards a crystal bower far away. 

Lo ! while slow carried through the pitying crowd, 
To his inward senses these words spake aloud ; 
Written in starlight on the dark above : 
" Dearest Endymion ! my entire love ! 
How have I dwelt in fear of fate ; 'tis done — 
Immortal bliss for me too hast thou won. 
Arise then ! for the hen-dove shall not hatch 
Her ready eggs, before I'll kissing snatch 
Thee into endless heaven. Awake ! awake !" 

The youth at once arose : a placid lake 
Came quiet to his eyes ; and forest green, 
Cooler than all the wonder he had seen, 
Lulled with its simple song his fluttering breast. 
How happy once again in grassy nest ! 



154 



E N D Y M I N. 



BOOK IV. 



Muse of my native land ! loftiest Muse ! 

O first-born on tlie mountains ! By the hues 

Of heaven on the spiritual air begot : 

Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot, 

While yet our England was a wolfish den ; 

Before our forests heard the talk of men ; 

Before the first of Druids was a child ; — 

Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild, 

Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude. 

There came an eastern voice of solemn mood : — 

Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Kine, 

Apollo's garland : — yet didst thou divine 

Such home-bred glory, that they cried in vain, 

" Come hither, Sister of the Island !" Plain 

Spake fair Ausonia ; and once more she spake 

A higher summons : — still didst thou betake 

Thee to thy native hopes. thou hast won 

A full accomplishment ! The thing is done. 

Which undone, these our latter days had risen 

On barren souls. Great Muse, thou knowest what prison 

Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets 

Our spirits' wings : despondency besets 

Our pillows ; and the fresh to-morrow morn 

Seems to give forth its light in very scorn 

Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives. 

Long have I said, how happy he who shrives 



E N D Y M 1 N. 185 

To thee ! But then I thought on poets gone, 
And could not pray : — nor can I now — so on 
I moved to the end in lowliness of heart. — 

"Ah, woe is me ! that I should fondly part 
From my dear native land ! Ah, foolish maid ! 
Glad was the hour, when, wdth thee, myriads hade 
Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields ! 
To one so friendless the clear freshet yields 
A bitter coolness ; the ripe grape is sour: 
Yet I would have, great gods ! but one short hour 
Of native air — ^let me but die at home." 

Endymion to heaven's airy dome 
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows, 
When these words reached him. Whereupon he bows 
His head through thorny-green entanglement 
Of underwood, and to the sound is bent. 
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn. 

" Is no one near to help me ? Xo fair dawn 
Of life from charitable voice ? N'o sweet saying 
To set my dull and saddened spirit playing ! 
No hand to toy with mine ? No lips so sweet 
That I may worship them ? No eyelids meet 
To twinkle on my bosom ? No one dies 
Before me, till from these enslaving eyes 
Redemption sparkles! — I am sad and lost." 

Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been tost 
Into a whirlpool. Vanish into air. 
Warm mountaineer ! for canst thou only bear 
A woman's sigh alone and in distress ? 
See not her charms ! Is Phcebe passionless ? 



156 E N D Y M 1 N. 

Phoebe is fairer far — gaze no more : — 
Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty's store, 
Behold her panting in the forest grass ! 
Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass 
For tenderness the arms so idly lain 
Amongst them ? Feelest not a kindred pain, 
To see such lovely eyes in swimming search 
After some warm delight, that seems to perch 
Dovelike in the dim cell lying beyond 
Their upper lids ? — Hist ! 

" for Hermes' wand. 
To touch this flower into human shape ! 
That woodland Hyacinthus could escape 
From his green prison, and here kneeling down 
Call me his queen, his second life's fair crown ! 
Ah me, how I could love ! — My soul doth melt 
For the unhappy youth — Love ! I have felt 
So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender 
To what my own full thoughts had made too tender, 
That but for tears my life had fled away ! 
Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day. 
And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true. 
There is no lightning, no authentic dew 
But in the eye of love : there's not a sound. 
Melodious howsoever, can confound 
The heavens and earth in one to such a death 
As doth the voice of love : there's not a breath 
Will mingle kindly with the meadow air. 
Till it has panted round, and stolen a share 
Of passion from the heart." — 

Upon a bough 
He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now 



E N D Y M 1 N. 157 

Thirst for another love : O impious, 

That he can even dream upon it thus ! 

Thought he, " "Why am I not as are the dead. 

Since to a woe like this I have been led 

Through the dark earth, and through the wondrous sea ? 

Goddess ! I love thee not the less : from thee 

By Juno's smile I turn not — no, no, no — 

Wliile the great waters are at ebb, and flow, — 

I have a triple soul ! O fond pretence — 

For both, for both my love is so immense, 

I feel my heart is cut in twain for them." 

And so he groaned, as one by beauty slain. 
The lady's heart beat quick, and he could see 
Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously. 
He sprang from his green covert : there she lay. 
Sweet as a musk-rose upon new-made hay ; 
With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes 
Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries : 
" Fair damsel, pity me ! forgive that I 
Thus violate thy bower's sanctity ! 

pardon me, for I am full of grief — 

Grief born of thee, young angel ! fairest thief! 
Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith 

1 was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith 
Thou art my executioner, and I feel 
Loving and hatred, misery and weal, 

Will in a few short hours be nothing to me, 
And all my story that much passion slew me ; 
Do smile upon the evening of my days ; 
And, for my tortured brain begins to craze. 
Be thou my nurse ; and let me understand 
How dying I shall kiss that lily hand. — 
Dost weep for me ! Then should I be content. 
ScoAvl on, ye fates ! until the firmament 



1S8 E N D Y M 1 N. 

Outblackens Erebus, and the full-caverned eartli 

Crumbles into itself. By the cloud-girtb 

Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst 

To meet oblivion." — As her heart would burst 

The maiden sobbed awhile, and then replied : 

" Why must such desolation betide 

As that thou speakest of? Are not these green nooks 

Empty of all misfortune ? Do the brooks 

Utter a gorgon voice ? Does yonder thrush, 

Schooling its half-fledged little ones to brush 

About the dewy forest, whisper tales ? — 

Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails 

Will slime the rose to-night. Though if thou wilt, 

Methinks 'twould be a guilt — a very guilt — 

!N^ot to companion thee, and sigh away 

The light — the dusk — the dark — till break of day !" 

"Dear lady," said Endymion, " 'tis past: 

I love thee ! and my days can never last. 

That I may pass in patience still speak : 

Let me have music dying, and I seek 

^o more delight — I bid adieu to all. 

Didst thou not after other climates call. 

And murmur about Indian streams?" — Then she, 

Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree. 

For pity sang this roundelay 

" Sorrow ! 

Why dost borrow 
The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips ? — 

To give maiden blushes 

To the white rose bushes ? 
Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 

" Sorrow ! 
Why dost borrow 
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye ? — 



E N D Y M 1 N. 159 

To give the glow-worm light ? 
Or, on a moonless niglit, 
To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spi-y ? 

" O Sorrow ! 
"Why dost borrow 
The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue ? — 

To give at evening pale 

Unto the nightingale. 
That thou mayst listen the cold dews among ? 

" Sorrow ! 

"Why dost borrow 
Heart's lightness from the merriment of May ? 

A lover would not tread 

A cowslip on the head. 
Though he should dance from eve till peep of day — 

Nor any drooping flower 

Held sacred for thy bower, 
"Wherever he may sport himself and play. 

" To Sorrow, 

I bade good-morrow, 
And thought to leave her far away behind ; 

But cheerly, cheerly, 

She loves me dearly ; 
She is so constant to me, and so kind : 

I would deceive her, 

And so leave her, 
But ah ! she is so constant and so kind. 

"Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, 
I sat a weeping : in the whole world wide 
There was no one to ask me why I wept — 

And so I kept 
Brimming the water-lily cups with tears 

Cold as my fears. 



160 



E N D Y M I N. 



" Beneatli my palm-trees, by the river side, 
I sat a weeping : what enamored bride, 
Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds. 

But hides and shrouds 
Beneath dark palm-trees by a river side ? 

" And as I sat, over the light blue hills 

There came a noise of revellers : the rills • 

Into the wide stream came of purple hue — 

'Twas Bacchus and his crew ! 
The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills 
From kissing cymbals made a merry din — 

'Twas Bacchus and his kin ! 
Like to a moving vintage down they came. 
Crowned with green leaves, and faces all on flame ; 
All madly dancing through the pleasant valley. 

To scare thee, Melancholy ! 
then, then, thou wast a simple name ! 
And I forgot thee, as the berried holly 
By shepherds is forgotten, when in June, 
Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon : — 

I rushed into the folly ! 

"Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood. 
Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood. 

With sidelong laughing ; 
And little rills of crimson wine imbrued 
His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white 

For Yenus' pearly bite ; 
And near him rode Silenus on his ass, 
Pelted with flowers as he on did pass 

Tipsily quafiing. 

"Whence came ye, merry Damsels ! whence came ye, 
So many, and so many, and such glee ? 



ENDYMION. 161 

Why have ye left your bowers desolate, 

Your lutes, and gentler fate ? 
' We follow Bacchus ! Bacchus on the wing, 

A conquering ! 
Bacchus, young Bacchus ! good or ill betide. 
We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide : — 
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 

To our wild minstrelsy !' 

" Wlience came ye, jolly Satyrs ! whence came ye. 
So many, and so many, and such glee? 
Wliy have ye left your forest haunts, why left 

Your nuts in oak-tree cleft ? — 
'For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree ; 
For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms. 

And cold mushrooms ; 
For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth ; 
Great god of breathless cups and chirping mirth ! 
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 

To our mad minstrelsy !' 

" Over wide streams and mountains great we went, 
And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, 
Onward the tiger and the leopard pants. 

With Asian elephants : 
Onward these myriads — with song and dance. 
With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance 
Web-footed alligators, crocodiles. 
Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files, 
Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil 
Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil : 
With toying oars and silken sails they glide, 

Nor care for wind and tide. 
11 



162 E N D Y M 1 N. 

" Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes, 
From rear to van they scour about the plains ; 
A three days' journey in a moment done ; 
And always, at the rising of the sun, 
About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn, 
On spleenful unicorn. 

" I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown 

Before the vine-wreath crown ! 
I saw parched Abyssinia rouse and sing 

To the silver cymbals' ring ! 
I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce 

Old Tartary the fierce ! 
The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail, 
And from their treasures scatter pearled hail ; 
Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans. 

And all his priesthood moans. 
Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale. 
Into these regions came I, following him. 
Sick-hearted, weary — so I took a whim 
To stray away into these forests drear, 

Alone, without a peer : 
And I have told thee all thou mayest hear. 

" Young Stranger ! 
I've been a ranger 

In search of pleasure throughout every clime ; 
Alas ! 'tis not for me : 
Bewitched I sure must be. 

To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. 

"Come then, Sorrow, 
Sweetest Sorrow! 
Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast : 



END YM ION. 163 

I tliouglit to leave tliee, 
And deceive thee, 
But now of all tlie world I love tliee best. 

" There is not one, 

'No, no, not one 
But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid ; 

Thou art her mother. 

And her brother. 
Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade." 

O what a sigh she gave in finishing, 
And look, quite dead to every worldly thing ! 
Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her ; 
And listened to the wind that now did stir 
About the crisped oaks full drearily, 
Yet with as sweet a softness as might be 
Remembered from its velvet summer sons:. 
At last he said : " Poor lady ! how thus long 
Have I been able to endure that voice ? 
Fair Melody ! kind Siren ! I've no choice ; 
I must be thy sad seiwant evermore : 
I cannot choose but kneel here and adore. 
Alas, I must not think — by Phcebe, no ! 
Let me not think, soft Angel ! shall it be so ? 
Say, beautifullest, shall I never think ? 
O thou couldst foster me beyond the brink 
Of recollection ! make my watchful care 
Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair ! 
Do gently murder half my soul, and I 
Shall feel the other half so utterly ! — 
I'm giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth : 
O let it blush so ever : let it soothe 



164 ENDYMION. 

My madness ! let it mantle rosy-warm 

With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm. 

This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is ; 

And this is sure thine other softling — this 

Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near ! 

Wilt fall asleep ? let me sip that tear ! 

And whisper one sweet word that I may know 

This is this world — sweet dewy blossom !" — Woe ! 

Woe ! woe to that Endymion ! Where is he ? — 

Even these words went echoing dismally 

Through the wide forest — a most fearful tone, 

Like one repenting in his latest moan ; 

And while it died away a shade passed by, 

As of a thunder-cloud. When arrows fly 

Through the thick branches, poor ring-doves sleek forth 

Their timid necks and tremble ; so these both 

Leant to each other trembling, and sat so 

Waiting for some destruction — when lo ! 

Foot-feathered Mercury appeared sublime 

Beyond the tall tree tops ; and in less time 

Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropped 

Towards the ground ; but rested not, nor stopped 

One moment from his home : only the sward 

He with his wand light touched, and heavenward 

Swifter than sight was gone — even before 

The teeming earth a sudden witness bore 

Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear 

Above the crystal circlings white and clear ; 

And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise. 

How they can dive in sight and unseen rise — 

So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black, 

Each with large dark blue wings upon his back. 

The youth of Caria placed the lovely dame 

On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame 



i 



ENDYMION. 

The other's fierceness. Through the air they flew, 
High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew 
Exhaled to Phoebus' lips, away they are gone, 
Far from the earth away — unseen, alone, 
Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free 
The buoyant life of song can floating be 
Above their heads, and follow them untired. 
Muse of my native land ! am I inspired ? 
This is the giddy air, and I must spread 
Wide pinions to keep here ; nor do I dread 
Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance 
Precipitous : I have beneath my glance 
Those towering horses and their mournful freight. 
Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await 
Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid ? 
There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade 
From some approaching wonder, and behold 
Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils bold 
Snuff" at its faint extreme, and seem to tire, 
Dying to embers from their native fire ! 

There curled a purple mist around them ; soon. 
It seemed as when around the pale new moon 
Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow 
'Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow. 
For the first time, since he came nigh dead-born 
From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn 
Had he left more forlorn ; for the first time, 
He felt aloof the day and morning's prime — 
Because into his depth Cimmerian 
There came a dream, showing how a young man, 
Ere a lean bat could plump its wintry skin, 
Would at high Jove's empyreal footstool win 
An immortality, and how espouse 
Jove's daughter, and be reckoned of his house. 



165 



166 ENDYMION. 

Now was he slumbering towards heaven's gate, 
That he might at the threshold one hour wait 
To hear the marriage melodies, and then 
Sink downward to his dusky cave again : 
His litter of smooth semilucent mist. 
Diversely tinged with rose and amethyst, 
Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought ; 
And scarcely for one moment could be caught 
His sluggish form reposing motionless. 
Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress 
Of vision searched for him, as one would look 
Athwart the sallows of a river nook 
To catch a glance at silver-throated eels, — 
Or from old Skiddaw's top, when fog conceals 
His rugged forehead in a mantle pale, 
With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale, 
Descry a favorite hamlet faint and far. 

These raven horses, though they fostered are 
Of earth's splenetic fire, dully drop 
Their full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop ; 
Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread 
Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead, — 
And on those pinions, level in mid-air, 
Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair. 
Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle 
Upon a calm sea drifting : and meanwhile 
The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold ! he walks 
On heaven's pavement, brotherly he talks 
To divine powers : from his hand full fain 
Juno's proud birds are pecking pearly grain : 
He tries the nerve of Phoebus' golden bow. 
And asketh where the golden apples grow : 
Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield. 
And strives in vain to unsettle and wield 



E N D Y M ION. 



167 



A Jovian thunderbolt : arch Hebe brings 

A full-brimmed goblet, dances ligbtly, sings 

And tantalizes long ; at last he drinks, 

And lost in pleasure, at her feet he sinks, 

Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand, 

He blows a bugle, — an ethereal band 

Are visible above : the Seasons four, — 

Green-kirtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store 

In Autumn's sickle. Winter frosty hoar, 

Join dance with shadowy Hours ; while still the blast, 

In swells unmitigated, still doth last 

To sway their floating morris. " Whose is this ? 

Whose bugle ?" he inquires : they smile — " O Dis ! 

Wliy is this mortal here ? Dost thou not know 

Its mistress' hps ? ITot thou ?— 'Tis Dian's : lo ! 

She rises crescented !" He looks, 'tis she, 

His very goddess : good-bye earth, and sea, 

And air, and pains, and care, and suffering ; 

Good-bye to all but love ! Then doth he spring 

Towards her, and awakes — and, strange, o'erhead. 

Of those same fragrant exhalations bred, 

Beheld awake his very dream : the gods 

Stood smiling ; merry Hebe laughs and nods ; 

And Phcebe bends towards him crescented. 

state perplexing ! On the pinion bed, 

Too well awake, he feels the panting side 

Of his delicious lady. He who died 

For soaring too audacious in the sun. 

Where that same treacherous wax began to run, 

Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion. 

His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne. 

To that fair-shadowed passion pulsed its w^ay — 

Ah, what perplexity ! Ah, well a-day ! 

So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow, 

He could not help but kiss her : then he grew 



168 E N D Y M 1 N. 

Awhile forgetful of all beauty save 

Young Phoebe's, golden-haired ; and so 'gan crave 

Forgiveness : yet he turned once more to look 

At the sweet sleeper, — all his soul was shook, — 

She pressed his hand in slumber ; so once more 

He could not help but kiss her and adore. 

At this the shadow wept, melting away. 

The Latmian started up : " Bright goddess, stay ! 

Search my most hidden breast ! By truth's own tongue, 

I have no dfedale heart ; why is it wrung 

To desperation ? Is there nought for me, 

Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery ?" 

These words awoke the stranger of dark tresses : 
Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion blesses 
With 'havior soft. Sleep yawned from underneath. 
" Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more breathe 
This murky phantasm ! thou contented seem'st 
Pillowed in lovely idleness, nor dream'st 
"Wliat horrors may discomfort thee and me. 
Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treacheiy ! — 
Yet did she merely weep — ^lier gentle soul 
Hath no revenge in it ; as it is whole 
In tenderness, Avould I were whole in love ! 
Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above, 
Even when I feel as true as innocence ! 
I do, I do. — What is this soul then ? Whence 
Came it ? It does not seem my own, and I 
Have no self-passion or identity. 
Some fearful end must be ; where, where is it ? 
By Nemesis ! I see my spirit flit 
Alone about the dark — Forgive me, sweet ! 
Shall we away?" He roused the steeds ; they beat 
Their wings chivalrous into the clear air. 
Leaving old Sleep within his vapory lair. ( 



I 



ENDYMION. 



169 



The good-niglit blush of eve was waning slow, 
And Vesper, risen star, began to throe 
In the dusk heavens silvery, when they 
Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy. 
Nor did speed hinder converse soft and strange — 
Eternal oaths and vows they interchange. 
In such wise, in such temper, so aloof 
Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof, 
So witless of their doom, that verily 
'Tis well-nigh past man's search their hearts to see ; 
Whether they wept, or laughed, or grieved, or toyed— 
Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloyed. 

Full facing their swift flight, from ebon streak, 
The moon put forth a little diamond peak, 
No bigger than an unobserved star. 
Or tiny point of fairy scimitar ; 
Bright signal that she only stooped to tie 
Her silver sandals, ere deliciously 
She bowed into the heavens her timid head. 
Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled, 
While to his lady meek the Carian turned. 
To mark if her dark eyes had yet discerned ■ 
This beauty in its birth — Despair ! despair ! 
He saw her body fading gaunt and spare 
In the cold moonshine. Straight he seized her wrist ; 
It melted from his grasp ; her hand he kissed, 
And, horror ! kissed his own — he was alone. 
Her steed a little higher soared, and then 
Dropt hawk-wise to the earth. 

There lies a den. 
Beyond the seeming confines of the space 
Made for the soul to wander in and trace 



1"0 ENDYMION. 

Its own existence, of remotest glooms. 
Dark regions are around it, where the tombs 
Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce 
One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce 
Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart : 
And in these regions many a venomed dart 
At random flies ; they are the proper home 
Of every ill : the man is yet to come 
Who hath not journeyed in this native hell. 
But few have ever felt how calm and well 
Sleep may be had in that deep den of all. 
There anguish does not sting, nor pleasure pall ; 
Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate, 
Yet all is still within and desolate. 
Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear 
No sound so loud as when on curtained bier 
The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none 
Who strive therefor ; on the sudden it is won 
Just when the sufferer begins to burn, 
Then it is free to him ; and from an urn. 
Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught — 
Young Semele such richness never quaffed 
In her maternal longing. Happy gloom ! 
"Dark Paradise ! where pale becomes the bloom 
Of health by due; where silence dreariest 
Is most articulate ; where hopes infest ; 
Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep 
Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep. 
happy spirit-home ! wondrous soul ! 
" Pregnant with such a den to save the whole 
In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian ! 
For, never since thy griefs and woes began, 
Hast thou felt so content : a grievous feud 
Hath led thee to this Cave of Quietude. 



ENDYMION. ^'^ 



Ay, his lulled soul was tliere, although upborne 
With dangerous speed ; and so he did not mourn 
Because he knew not whither he was going. 
So happy was he, not the aerial blowing 
Of trumpets at clear parley from the east 
Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast. 
They stung the feathered horse ; with fierce alarm 
He flapped towards the sound. Alas ! no charm 
Could lift Endymion's head, or he had viewed 
A skyey mask, a pinioned multitude, — 
And silvery was its passing : voices sweet 
Warbling the while as if to lull and greet 
The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they, 
While past the vision went in bright array. 

"Who, who from Dian's feast would be away? 
For all the golden bowers of the day 
Are empty left ? Who, who away would be 
From Cynthia's wedding and festivity? 
Not Hesperus : lo ! upon his silver wings 
He leans away for highest heaven and sings 
Snapping his lucid fingers merrily ! — 
Ah, Zephyrus ! art here, and Flora too ? 
Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew. 
Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, 
Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill 

Your baskets high 
With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines, 
Savory, latter-mint, and columbines. 
Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme ; 
Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime. 
All gathered in the dewy morning : hie 
Away! fly, fly!— 



172 ENDYMION. 

Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven, 
Aquarius ! to whom King Jove has given 
Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feathered wings, 
Two fanlike fountains, — thine illuminings 

For Dian play : 
Dissolve the frozen purity of air ; 
Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare 
Show cold through watery pinions ; make more bright 
The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage night : 

Haste, haste away ! 
Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see ! 
And of the Bear has Pollux mastery : 
A third is in the race ! who is the third, 
Speeding away swift as the eagle bird ? 

The ramping Centaur ! 
The Lion's mane's on end : the Bear how fierce ! 
The Centaur's arrow ready seems to pierce 
Some enemy : far forth his bow is bent 
Lito the blue of heaven. He'll be shent. 

Pale unrelentor. 
When he shall hear the wedding lutes a playing. — 
Andromeda ! sweet woman ! why delaying 
So timidly among the stars : come hither ! 
Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither 

They all are going. 
Danae's Son, before Jove newly bowed. 
Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud. 
Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthrall : 
Ye shall for ever live and love, for all 

Thy tears are flowing. — 
By Daphne's fright, behold Apollo !" — 

More 
Endymion heard not : down his steed him bore, 



ENDYMION. 1*^3 

Proue to the green head of a misty hill. 

His first touch of the earth went nigh to kill. 
"Alas !" said he, "were I but always borne 
Through dangerous winds, had but my footsteps worn 
A path in hell, forever would I bless 
Horrors which nourish an uneasiness 
For my own sullen conquering ; to him 
Who lives beyond earth's boundary, grief is dim, 
Sorrow is but a shadow : now I see 
The grass ; I feel the solid ground — Ah, me ! 
It is thy voice — divinest ! Where ? — who ? who 
Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew ? 
Behold upon this happy earth we are : 
Let us aye love each other ; let us fere 
On forest-fruits, and never, never go 
Among the abodes of mortals here below, 
Or be by phantoms duped. O destiny ! 
Lito a labyrinth now my soul would fly, 
But with thy beauty will I deaden it. 
Where didst thou melt to ? By thee will I sit 
Forever : let our fate stop here — a kid 
I on this spot will ofl"er : Pan will bid 
Us live in peace, in love and peace among 
His forest wildernesses. I have clung 
To nothing, loved a nothing, nothing seen 
Or felt but a great dream ! Oh, I have been 
Presumptuous against love, against the sky. 
Against all elements, against the tie 
Of mortals each to each, against the blooms 
Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs 
Of heroes gone ! Against his proper glory 
Has my own soul conspired : so my story 



174 ENDYMION. 

Will I to children utter, and repent. 

There never lived a mortal man, who bent 

His appetite be3^ond his natural sphere. 

But starved and died. My sweetest Indian, here, 

Here will I kneel, for thou redemeed hast 

My life from too thin breathing : gone and past 

Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewell ! 

And air of visions, and the monstrous swell 

Of visionary seas ! No, never more 

Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore 

Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast. 

Adieu, my daintiest Dream ! although so vast 

My love is still for thee. The hour may come 

When we shall meet in pure elysium. 

On earth I may not love thee, and therefore 

Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store 

All through the teeming year : so thou wilt shine 

On me, and on this damsel fair of mine, 

And bless our simple lives. My Indian bliss ! 

My river-lily bud ! one human kiss ! 

One sigh of real breath — one gentle squeeze, 

Warm as a dove's nest among summer trees, 

And warm with dew at ooze from living blood ! 

Whither didst melt ? Ah, what of that ! — all good" 

We'll talk about — no more of dreaming. — Now, 

Where shall our dwelling be ? Under the brow 

Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun 

Would hide us up, although spring leaves were none 

And where dark yew-trees, as we rustle through, 

Will drop their scarlet-berry cups of dew ! 

thou wouldst joy to live in such a place ! 

Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to grace 

Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclined : 

For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou find. 



ENDYMION. 



175 



And by another, in deep dell below, 

See, tlii'ougli the trees, a little river go 

All in its mid-day gold and glimmering. 

Honey from out the gnarled hive I'll bring. 

And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee, — 

Cresses that grow where no man may them see. 

And sorrel untorn by the dew-clawed stag : 

Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag, 

That thou mayst always know whither I roam, 

When it shall please thee in our quiet home 

To listen and think of love. Still let me speak ; 

Still let me dive into the joy I seek, — 

For yet the past doth prison me. The rill, 

Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill 

With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn. 

And thou shalt feed them from the squirrel's barn. 

Its bottom will I strew with amber shells, 

And pebbles blue from deep enchanted wells. 

Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglantine. 

And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine. 

I will entice this crystal rill to trace, 

Love's silver name upon the meadow's face. 

I'll kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire ; 

And to god Phoebus for a golden lyre ; 

To Empress Dian for a hunting-spear ; 

To Vesper, for a taper silver-clear, 

That I may see thy beauty through the night ; 

To Flora, and a nightingale shall light 

Tame on thy finger ; to the River-gods, 

And they shall bring thee taper fishing-rods 

Of gold, and lines of naiads' long bright tress. 

Heaven shield thee for thine utter loveliness 1 

Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be 

'Fore which I'll bend, bending dear love, to thee : 



I'S ■ ENDYMION. 

Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall speak 
Laws to my footsteps, color to my cheek, 
Trembling or steadfastness to this same voice, 
And of three sweetest pleasurings the choice : 
And that affectionate light, those diamond tilings. 
Those eyes, those passions, those supreme pearl springs. 
Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to pleasure. 
Say, is not bliss within our perfect seizure ? 
Oh, that I could not doubt !" 

The mountaineer 
Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to clear 
His briered path to some tranquillity. 
It gave bright gladness to his lady's eye. 
And yet the tears she wept were tears of sorrow ; 
Answering thus, just as the golden morrow 
Beamed upward from the valleys of the east : 
" O that the flutter of his heart had ceased, 
Or the sweet name of love had passed away ! 
Young feathered tyrant ! by a swift decay 
"Wilt thou devote this body to the earth : 
And I do think that at my very birth ^ 

I lisped thy blooming titles inwardly ; 
For at the first, first dawn and thought of thee, 
"With uplift hands I blessed the stars of heaven. 
Art thou not cruel ? ever have I striven 
To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do ! 
"When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew 
Favor from thee, and so I kisses gave 
To the void air, bidding them find out love : 
But when I came to feel how far above 
All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood. 
All earthly pleasure, all imagined good, 
Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss, — 
Even then that moment, at the thought of this, 



E N D Y M I N. 1"7 

Fainting I fell into a bed of flowers, 

And lang'uislied there three days. Ye milder powers, 

Am I not cruelly wronged ? Believe, believe 

Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave 

With my own fancies garlands of sweet life. 

Thou shouldst be one of all. Ah, bitter strife ! 

I may not be thy love : I am forbidden — 

Indeed I am — thwarted, aflrighted, chidden. 

By things I trembled at, and gorgon wrath. 

Twice hast thou asked wdiither I went : henceforth 

Ask me no more ! I may not utter it, 

Kor may I be thy love. We might commit 

Ourselves at once to vengeance ; we might die; 

We might embrace and die : voluptuous thought ! 

Enlarge not to my hunger, or I'm caught 

In trammels of perverse deliciousness. 

'No, no, that shall not be ; thee will I bless, 

And bid a long adieu." 

The Carian 
N"o word returned : both lovelorn, silent, wan. 
Into the valleys green together went. 
Far wandering, they were perforce content 
To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree ; 
Nor at each other gazed, but heavily 
Pored on its hazel cirque of shedded leaves. 

Endymion ! unhappy ! it nigh grieves 
Me to behold thee thus in last extreme : 
Enskied ere this, but truly that I deem 
Truth the best music in a first-born song. 
Thy lute-voiced brother will I sing ere long. 
And thou shalt aid — ^hast thou not aided me ? 
Yes, moonlight Emperor ! felicity 

12 



178 END YM ION. 

Has been thy meed for many thousand years; 
Yet often have I, on the brink of tears, 
Mourned as if yet thou wert a forester ; — 
Forgetting the old tale. 

He did not stir 
His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse 
Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls 
Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays 
Through the old garden-ground of boyish days. 
A little onward ran the very stream 
By which he took his first soft poppy dream ; 
And on the very bark 'gainst which he leant 
A crescent he had carved, and round it spent 
His skill in little stars. The teeming tree 
Had swollen and greened the pious charactery, 
But not ta'en out. Why, there was not a slope 
Up which he had not feared the antelope ; 
And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade 
He had not with his tamed leopards played ; 
^or could an arrow light, or javelin. 
Fly in the air where his had never been — 
And yet he knew it not. ^ 

treachery ! 
"Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye 
"With all his sorrowing ? He sees her not. 
But who so stares on him ? His sister sure ! 
Peona of the woods ! — Can she endure ? 
Impossible — how dearly they embrace ! 
His lady smiles ; delight is in her face ; 
It is no treachery. 

" Dear brother mine ! 
Endymion, weep not so ! Why shouldst thou pine 



1 



ENDYMION. 



179 



"When all great Latmos so exalt will be ? 

Thank the great gods, and look not bitterly ; 

And speak not one pale word, and sigh no more. 

Sure I will not believe thou hast such store 

Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again. 

Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain, 

Come hand in hand with one so beautiful. 

Be happy both of you ! for I will pull 

The flowers of autumn for your coronals, 

Pan's holy priest for young Endymion calls ; 

And when he is restored, thou, fairest dame, 

Shalt be our queen. ITow, is it not a shame 

To see ye thus, — not very, very sad ? 

Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad : 

O feel as if it were a common day ; 

Free-voiced as one who never was away. 

Ko tongue shall ask, whence come ye ? but ye shall 

Be gods of your own rest imperial. 

Not even I, for one whole month, will pry 

Into the hours that have passed us by. 

Since in my arbor I did sing to thee. 

O Hermes ! on this very night will be 

A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light ; 

For the soothsayers old saw yesternight 

Good visions in the air, — whence will befall. 

As say these sages, health perpetual 

To shepherds and their flocks ; and furthermore, 

In Dian's face they read the gentle lore : 

Therefore for her these vesper-carols are. 

Our friends will all be there from nigh and far. 

Many upon thy death have ditties made ; 

And many, even now, their foreheads shade 

With cypress, on a day of sacrifice. 

New singing for our maids shalt thou devise. 



180 ENDYMION. 

And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen's brows, 

Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse 

This wayward brother to his rightful joys ! 

His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst poise 

His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I pray, 

To lure — Endymion, dear brother, say 

What ails thee ?" He could bear no more, and so 

Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow, 

And twanged it inwardly, and calmly said : 

" I would have thee my only friend, sweet maid ! 

My only visitor ! not ignorant though. 

That those deceptions which for pleasure go 

'Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be: 

But there are higher ones I may not see, 

If impiously an earthly realm I take. 

Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake 

Night after night, and day by day, until 

Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill. 

Let it content thee, Sister, seeing me 

More happy than betides mortality. 

A hermit young, I'll live in mossy cave, 

"Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave 

Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell. 

Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well ; 

For to thy tongue will I all health confide. 

And for my sake, let this young maid abide 

With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone, 

Peona, mayst return to me. I own 

This may sound strangely : but when, dearest girl, 

Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl 

Will trespass down those cheeks. Companion fair ! 

Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share 

This sister's love with me ?" Like one resigned 

And bent by circumstances, and thereby blind 



ENDYMION, 181 

In self-commitment, tlius, tliat meek unknown : 

" Ay, but a buzzing by my ears has flown, 

Of jubilee to Dian : — truth I heard ! 

Well then, I see there is no little bird, 

Tender soever, but is Jove's own care. 

Long have I sought for rest, and unaAvare, 

Behold I find it ! so exalted too ! 

So after my own heart ! I knew, I knew 

There was a place untenanted in it ; 

In that same void white Chastity shall sit, 

And monitor me nightly to lone slumber. 

With sanest lips I vow me to the number 

Of Dian's sisterhood ; and, kind lady. 

With thy good help, this very night shall see 

My future days to her fane consecrate." 

As feels a dreamer what doth most create 
His own particular fright, so these three felt : 
Or like one who, in after ages, knelt 
To Lucifer or Baal, when he'd pine 
After a little sleep : or when in mine 
Far under-ground, a sleeper meets his friends 
Who know him not. Each diligently bends 
Towards common thoughts and things for very fear ; 
Striving their ghastly malady to cheer. 
By thinking it a thing of yes and no. 
That housewives talk of. But the spirit-blow 
Was struck, and all were dreamers. At the last 
Endymion said : " Are not our fates all cast ? 
Why stand we here ? Adieu, ye tender pair ! 
Adieu !" Whereat those maidens, with wild stare, 
Walked dizzily away. Pained and hot 
His eyes went after them, until they got 



182 



E N D Y M 1 N. 



Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly maw, 

In one swift moment, would what then he saw 

Engulf for ever. "Stay," he cried, "ah, stay! 

Turn damsels ! hist ! one word I have to say : 

Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again. 

It is a thing I dote on : so I'd fain, 

Peona, ye should hand in hand repair, 

Into those holy groves that silent are 

Behind great Dian's temple. I'll he yon, 

At vesper's earliest twinkle — they are gone — 

But once, once, once again — " At this he prest 

His hands against his face, and then did rest 

His head upon a mossy hillock green 

And so remained as he a corpse had been 

All the long day ; save when he scantly lifted 

His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted 

With the slow move of time, — sluggish and weary 

Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary. 

Had reached the river's brim. Then up he rose. 

And, slowly, as that very river flows, 

Walked towards the temple-grove with this lament ; 

" Why such a golden eve ? The breeze is sent 

Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall 

Before the serene father of them all 

Bows down his summer head below the west. 

Kow am I of breath, speech, and speed possest, 

But at the setting I must bid adieu 

To her for the last time. Night will strew 

On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves, 

And with them shall I die ; nor much it grieves 

To die, when summer dies on the cold sward. 

Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord 

Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies, 

Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbor-roses ; 



E N D Y M I X. 



183 



My kingdom's at its death, and just it is 
That I should die with it : so in all this 
We miscall grief, bale, sorrow, heart-break, woe, 
"What is there to plain of? By Titan's foe 
I am but rightly served." So saying, he 
Tripped lightly on, in sort of deathful glee ; 
Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun, 
As though they jests had been : nor had he done 
His laugh at nature's holy countenance. 
Until that grove appeared, as if perchance. 
And then his tongue with sober seemlihed 
Gave utterance as he entered : " Ha !" he said, 
"King of the butterflies ; but by this gloom. 
And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue of doom, 
This dusk religion, pomp of solitude. 
And the Promethean clay by thief endued, 
By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head 
Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed 
Myself to things of light from infancy : 
And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die, 
Is sure enough to make a mortal man 
Grow impious." So he inwardly began 
On things for which no wording can be found ; 
Deeper and deeper sinking, until drowned 
Beyond the reach of music : for the choir 
Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough brier 
IN'or muffling thicket interposed to dull 
The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full. 
Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles. 
He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles. 
Wan as primroses gathered at midnight 
By chilly-fingered Spring. Unhappy wight ! 
" Endymion !" said Peona, "we are here ! 
What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier?" 



184 ENDYMION. 

Then he embraced her, and his lady's hand 

Pressed, saying : " Sister, I would have command, 

If it were heaven's will, on our sad fate." 

At which that dark-ej-ed stranger stood elate 

And said, in a new voice, hut sweet as love, 

To Endymion's amaze : " By Cupid's dove. 

And so thou shalt ! and hy the lily truth 

Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth !" 

And as she spake, into her face there came 

Light, as reflected from a silver flame : 

Her long black hair swelled ampler, in display 

Full golden ; in her eyes a brighter day 

Dawned blue, and full of love. Ay, he beheld 

Phoebe, his passion ! joyous she upheld 

Her lucid bow, continuing thus : " Drear, drear 

Has our delaying been ; but foolish fear 

Withheld me first ; and then decrees of fate ; 

And then 'twas fit that from this mortal state 

Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlooked-for change 

Be spiritualized. Peona, we shall range 

These forests, and to thee they safe shall be 

As was thy cradle ; hither shalt thou flee 

To meet us many a time." ISText Cynthia bright 

Peona kissed, and blessed with fair good night : 

Her brother kissed her too, and knelt adown 

Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon. 

She gave her fair hands to him, and behold, 

Before three swiftest kisses he had told. 

They vanished far away ! — Peona went 

Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment. 



1 



L A M I A. 



PAET I. 

Upon a time, before the faery broods 

Drove l^ympb and Satyr from the prosperous woods, 

Before King Oberon's bright diadem, 

Sceptre, and mantle, clasped with dewy gem, 

Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns 

From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslipped lawns, 

The ever-smitten Hermes empty left 

His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft : 

From high Olympus had he stolen light. 

On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sight 

Of his great summoner, and made retreat 

Into a forest on the shores of Crete. 

For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt 

A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt : 

At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured 

Pearls, while on land they withered and adored. 

Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont. 

And in those meads where sometimes she might haunt, 

Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse, 

Though Fancy's casket were unlocked to choose. 



186 



L A M I A. 



All, what a world of love was at lier feet ! 

So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat 

Burued from his winged heels to either ear. 

That from a whiteness, as the lily clear. 

Blushed into roses 'mid his golden hair, 

Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare. 

From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew 

Breathing upon the flowers his passion new. 

And wound with many a river to its head, 

To find where this sweet nymph prepared her secret bed ; 

In vain ; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found, 

And so he rested, on the lonely ground, 

Pensive, and full of painful jealousies 

Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees. 

There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice. 

Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys 

All pain but pity : thus the lone voice spake : 

"When from this wreathed tomb shallj awake ! 

"When move in a sweet body fit for life, 

And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife 

Of hearts and lips ! Ah, miserable me !" 

The God, dove-footed, glided silently 

Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed, 

The taller grasses and full-flowering weed. 

Until he found a palpitating snake. 

Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake. 

She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue, 
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue ; 
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard. 
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barred ; 
And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed. 
Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwreathed 
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries — 
So rainbow-sided, touched with miseries, 



1 



LAMIA. 187 

She seemed at once, some penanced lady elf, 

Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self. 

Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire 

Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar : 

Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet ! 

She had a woman's mouth with all its pearls complete ; 

And for her eyes — what could such eyes do there 

But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair ? 

As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air. 

Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake 

Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love's sake. 

And thus ; while Hermes on his pinions lay. 

Like a stooped falcon ere he takes his prey : 

"Fair Hermes! crowned with feathers, fluttering light, 
I had a splendid dream of thee last night : 
I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold, 
Among the Gods, upon Olympus old, 
The only sad one ; for thou didst not hear 
The soft, lute-fingered Muses chanting clear, 
'Nor even Apollo when he sang alone, 
Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long melodious moan. 
I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes, 
Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks, 
And, swiftly as a bright Phoebcan dart. 
Strike for the Cretan isle ; and here thou art ! 
Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid ?" 
Whereat the star of Lethe not delayed 
His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired : 
" Thou smooth-lipped serpent, surely high-inspired ! 
Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes. 
Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise, 
Telling me only where my nymph is fled, — 
Where she doth breathe !" " Bright planet, thou hast 
said," 



188 LAMIA. 

Returned the snake, " but seal with oaths, fair God !" 

"I swear," said Hermes, "by my serpent rod, 

And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown !" 

Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms blown. 

Then thus again the brilliance feminine : 

" Too frail of heart ! for this lost nymph of thine, 

Free as the air, invisibly, she strays 

About these thornless wilds ; her pleasant days 

She tastes unseen ; unseen her nimble feet 

Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet : 

From weary tendrils, and bowed branches green, 

She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen : 

And by my power is her beauty veiled 

To keep it unaffronted, unassailed 

By the love-glances of unlovely eyes. 

Of Satyrs, Fauns, and bleared Silenus' sighs. 

Pale grew her immortality, for woe 

Of all these lovers, and she grieved so 

I took compassion on her, bade her steep 

Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep 

Her loveliness invisible, yet free 

To wander as she loves, in liberty. 

Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone. 

If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon !" 

Then, once again, the charmed God began 

An oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran 

Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian. 

Ravished she lifted her Circean head. 

Blushed a live damask, and swift-lisping said, 

" I was a woman, let me have once more 

A woman's shape, and charming as before. 

I love a youth of Corinth — O the bliss ! 

Give me my woman's form, and place me where he is. 

Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow, 

And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now." 



LAMIA. 



189 



The God on lialf-sliiit feathers sank serene, 

Slie breathed upon his eyes, and swift was seen 

Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green. 

It was no dream ; or say a dream it was. 

Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass 

Their pleasures in a long immortal dream. 

One warm, flushed moment, hovering, it might seem 

Dashed by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he burned ; 

Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turned 

To the swooned serpent, and with languid arm. 

Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean charm. 

So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent 

Full of adoring tears and blandishment. 

And towards her stept : she, like a moon in wane. 

Faded before him, cowered, nor could restrain 

Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower 

That faints into itself at evening hour : 

But the God fostering her chilled hand. 

She felt the warmth, her eyelids opened bland. 

And, like new flowers at morning song of bees, 

Bloomed, and gave up her honey to the lees. 

Into the green-recessed w^oods they flew ; 

Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do. 

Left to herself, the serpent now began 
To change ; her elfin blood in madness ran. 
Her mouth foamed, and the grass, therewith besprent, 
Withered at dew so sweet and virulent; 
Her eyes in torture fixed, and anguish drear. 
Hot, glazed, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear. 
Flashed phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling 

tear. 
The colors all inflamed throughout her train. 
She writhed about, convulsed with scarlet pain : 



190 LAMIA. 

A deep volcanian yellow took the place 

Of all lier milder-moonecl body's grace ; 

And, as tlie lava ravishes the mead, 

Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede : 

Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars, 

Eclipsed her crescents, and licked up her stars : 

So that, in moments few, she was nndrest 

Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst, 

And rubious-argent : of all these bereft, 

itTothing but pain and ugliness were left. 

Still shone her crown ; that vanished, also she 

Melted and disappeared as suddenly ; 

And in the air, her new voice luting soft. 

Cried, " Lycius ! gentle Lycius !" — borne aloft 

With the bright mists about the mountains hoar 

These words dissolved : Crete's forests heard no more. 

Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright, 
A full-born beauty new and exquisite ? 
She fled into that valley they pass o'er 
Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas' shore ; 
And rested at the foot of those wild hills, 
The rugged founts of the Pertean rills. 
And of that other ridge whose barren back 
Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack, 
Southwestward to Cleone. There she stood 
About a young bird's flutter from a wood, 
Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread. 
By a clear pool, wherein she passioned 
To see herself escaped from so sore ills. 
While her robes flaunted with the daftbdils. 

Ah, happy Lycius ! — for she was a maid 
More beautiful than ever twisted braid. 



LAMIA. 191 

Or sighed, or bluslied, or on spring-flowered lea 
Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy : 
/A virgin purest lipped, yet in the lore 
I Of love deep learned to the red heart's core : 
Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain 
To unperplex bliss from its neighbor pain ; 
Define their pettish limits, and estrange 
Their points of contact, and swift counterchange ; 
Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart 
Its most ambiguous atoms wath sure art ; 
As though in Cupid's college she had spent 
Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent, 
And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment. 

Wliy this fair creature chose so fairily 
By the wayside to linger, we shall see ; 
But first 'tis fit to tell how she could muse 
And dream, when in the serpent prison-house, 
Of all she list, strange or magnificent : 
How, ever, where she willed, her spirit went ; 
Whether to faint Elysium, or where 
Down through tress-lifting waves the l^ereids fair 
Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair : 
Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine, 
Stretched out at ease, beneath a glutinous pine ; 
Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine 
Mulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian line. 
And sometimes into cities she would send 
Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend ; 
And once, while among mortals dreaming thus, 
She saw the young Corinthian Lycius 
Charioting foremost in the envious race, 
Like a young Jove with calm uneager face. 
And fell into a swooning love of him. 
Now on the motli-timc of that eveninir dim 



192 



LAMIA. 



He would return that way, as well she knew, 

To Corinth from the shore ; for freshly blew 

The eastern soft wind, and his galley now 

Grated the quay-stones with her brazen prow 

In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle 

Fresh anchored ; whither he had been awhile 

To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there 

"Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense 

rare. 
Jove heard his vows, and bettered his desire ; 
For by some freakful chance he made retire 
From his companions, and set forth to walk. 
Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk : 
Over the solitary hills he fared. 
Thoughtless, at first, but ere eve's star appeared 
His phantasy was lost, where reason fades, 
In the calmed twilight of Platonic shades. 
Lamia beheld him coming near, more near — 
Close to her passing, in indifference drear. 
His silent sandals swept the mossy green ; 
So neighbored to him, and yet so unseen 
She stood : he passed, shut up in mysteries. 
His mind wrapped like his mantle, while her eyes 
Followed his steps, and her neck regal white 
Turned — syllabling thus, " Ah, Lycius bright ! 
And will you leave me on the hills alone ? 
Lycius, look back ! and be some pity shown." 
He did ; not with cold wonder fearingly, 
But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice ; 
For so delicious were the words she sung. 
It seemed he had loved them a whole summer long : 
And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up, 
Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup, 
And still the cup was full, — while he, afraid 
Lest she should vanish ere his lips had paid 



LAMIA. 193 

Due adoration, thus began to adore ; 

Her soft look growing coy, slie saw liis chain so sure : 

"Leave thee alone! Look back! Ah, Goddess, see 

"Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee ! 

For pity do not this sad heart belie — 

Even as thou vanishest so I shall die. 

Stay ! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay ! 

To thy far wishes will thy streams obey : 

Stay ! though the greenest woods be thy domain, 

Alone they can drink up the morning rain : 

Though a descended Pleiad, will not one ^ 

Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune 

Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine ? 

So sweetly to these ravished ears of mine 

Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade, 

Thy memory will waste me to a shade : — 

For pity do not melt !" — "If I should stay," 

Said Lamia, " here, upon this floor of clay. 

And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough, 

What canst thou say or do of charm enough 

To dull the nice remembrance of my home ? 

Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam 

Over these hills and vales, where no joy is, — 

Empty of immortality and bliss ! 

Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know 

That finer spirits cannot breathe below 

In human climes, and live : Alas ! poor youth. 

What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe 

My essence ? What serener palaces. 

Where I may all my many senses please, 

And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease ; 

It cannot be — Adieu !" So said, she rose 

Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose 

13 



194 LAMIA. 

The amorous promise of her lone complain, 
Swooned murmuring of love, and pale with pain. 
The cruel lady, without any show 
Of sorrow for her tender favorite's woe, 
But rather, if her eyes could brighter be, 
With brighter eyes and slow amenity, 
I Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh 
I The life she had so tangled in her mesh : 
And as he from one trance was wakening 
Into another, she began to sing, 
Happy in beauty, life, and love, and everything, 
A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres. 
While, like held breath, the stars drew in their pant- 
ing fires. 

then she whispered in such trembling tone. 
As those who, safe together met alone 
For the first time through many anguished days, 
Use other speech than looks ; bidding him raise 
His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt, 
For that she was a woman, and without 
Any more subtle fluid in her veins 
Than throbbing blood, and that the self-same pains 
Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his. 
And next she wondered how his eyes could miss 
Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said. 
She dwelt but half retired, and there had led 
( Days happy as the gold coin could invent 
Without the aid of love ; yet in content 
Till she saw him, as once she passed him by, 
Where 'gainst a column he leant thoughtfully 
At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets heaped 
Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reaped. 
Late on that eve, as 'twas the night before 
The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no more, 
But wept alone those days, for why should she adore ? 



L A M I A. 195 

Lycius from death awoke into amaze, 
To see her still, and singing so sweet lays ; 
Then from amaze into delight he fell 
To hear her whisper woman's lore so well ; 
And every word she spake enticed him on 
To unperplexed delight and pleasure known. 
Let the mad poets say whate'er they please 
Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, 
There is not such a treat among them all, 
Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, 
As a real woman, lineal indeed. 
From Pyrrha's pchbles or old Adam's seed. 
Thus gentle Lamia judged, and judged aright. 
That Lycius could not love in half a fright. 
So threw the goddess off, and won his heart 
More pleasantly by playing woman's part, 
"With no more awe than what her beauty gave, 
That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save. 
Lycius to all made eloquent reply. 
Marrying to every word a twin-born sigh ; 
And last, pointing to Corinth, asked her sweet. 
If 'twas too far that night for her soft feet. 
The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness 
Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease 
To a few paces ; not at all surmised 
By blinded Lycius, so in her comprised 
They passed the city gates, he knew not how. 
So noiseless, and he never thought to know. 

As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all, 
Throughout her palaces imperial. 
And all her populous streets and temples lewd. 
Muttered, like tempest in the distance brewed. 
To the wide-spreaded night above her towers. 
Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours. 



196 



LAMIA. 



Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement white, 
Companioned or alone ; while many a light 
Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals, 
And threw their moving shadows on the walls. 
Or found them clustered in the corniced shade 
Of some arched temple door, or dusky colonnade. 

Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear, 
Her fingers he pressed hard, as one came near 
With curled gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald 

crown, 
Slow-stepped, and robed in philosophic gown : 
Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past, 
Into his mantle, adding wings to haste. 
While hurried Lamia trembled : "Ah," said he, 
"Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully? 
Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew?" — 
"I'm wearied," said fair Lamia: "tell me who 
Is that old man ? I cannot bring to mind 
His features : — Lycius ! wherefore did you blind 
Yourself from his quick eyes?" Lycius replied, 
" 'Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide 
And good instructor ; but to-night he seems 
The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams." 

While yet he spake they had arrived before 
A pillared porch, with lofty portal door, 
Where hung a silver lamp whose phosphor glow 
Reflected in the slabbed steps below, 
Mild as a star in water ; for so new 
And so unsullied was the marble hue. 
So through the crystal polish, liquid fine, 
Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine 
Could e'er have touched there. Sounds -JColian 



LAMIA. 197 



Breathed from the hinges, as the ample span 

Of the wide doors disclosed a place unknown 

Some time to any, but those two alone, 

And a few Persian mutes, who that same year 

Were seen about the markets : none knew where 

They could inhabit ; the most curious 

"Were foiled, who watched to trace them to their house: 

And but the flitter-winged verse must tell, 

For truth's sake what woe afterwarde befell, 

'Twould humor many a heart to leave them thus, 

Shut from the busy world of more incredulous. 



PART 11. 

Love in a hut, with water and a crust, 

Is — Love, forgive us ! — cinders, ashes, dust ; 

Love in a palace is perhaps at last 

More grievous torment than a hermit's fiist :— 

That is a doubtful tale from faery land. 

Hard for the non-elect to understand. 

Had Lycius lived to hand his storj^ down, 

He might have given the moral a fresh frown, 

Or clenched it quite : but too short was their bliss 

To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss. 

Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare. 

Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair. 

Hovered and buzzed his wings, with fearful roar, 

Above the lintel of their chamber door. 

And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor. 

For all this came a ruin : side by side 
They were enthroned, in the even tide, 



198 LAMIA. 



Upon a couch, near to a curtaining 

Whose airy texture, from a goklen string, 

Floated into the room, and let appear 

Unveiled the summer heaven, blue and clear, 

Betwixt two marble shafts : — there they reposed, 

"Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed. 

Saving a tithe which love still open kept. 

That they might see each other while they almost slept ; 

When from the -slope side of a suburb hill, 

Deafening the swallow's twitter, came a thrill 

Of trumpets — Lycius started — the sounds fled. 

But left a thought, a buzzing in his head. 

For the first time, since first he harbored in 

That purple-lined palace of sweet sin. 

His spirit passed beyond its golden bourn 

Into the noisy world almost forsworn. 

The lady, ever watchful, penetrant, 

Saw this with pain, so arguing a want 

Of something more, more than her empery 

Of joys ; and she began to moan and sigh 

Because he mused beyond her, knowing well 

That but a moment's thought is passion's passing bell. 

"Why do you sigh, fair creature?" whispered he: 

"Why, do you think?" returned she, tenderly: 

"You have deserted me ; where am I now ? 

Kot in your heart while care weighs on your brow : 

No, no, you have dismissed me ; and I go 

From your breast houseless : ay, it must be so." 

He answered, bending to her open eyes, 

Where he was mirrored small in paradise, — 

" My silver planet, both of eve and morn ! 

Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn, 

While I am striving how to fill my heart 

With deeper crimson, and a double smart ? 



LAMIA. 



iy9 



How to entangle, trammel up and snare 

\^our soul in mine, and labyrintli you there. 

Like the hid scent in an unhudded rose ? 

Ay, a sweet kiss — ^you see your mighty woes. 

Mj thoughts ! shall I unveil them ? Listen then ! 

What mortal hath a prize, that other men 

May be confounded and abashed withal, . 

But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical. 

And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice 

Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice. 

Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar, 

While through the thronged streets your bridal car 

Wlieels round its dazzUng spokes." — The lady's cheek 

Trembled ; she nothing said, but, pale and meek, 

Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain 

Of sorrows at his words ; at last with pain 

Beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung. 

To change his purpose. He thereat was stung, 

Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim 

Her wild and timid nature to his aim ; 

Besides, for all his love, in self despite, 

Against his better self, he took delight 

Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new. 

His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue 

Fierce and sanguineous as 'twas possible 

Li one whose brow had no dark veins to swell. 

Fine was the mitigated fury, like 

Apollo's presence when in act to strike 

The serpent — Ha, the serpent ! certes, she 

Was none. She burnt, she loved the tyranny, 

And, all subdued, consented to the hour 

Wlien to the bridal he should lead his paramour. 

Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth, 

" Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my truth. 



2iOO LAMIA. 

I have not asked it, ever thinking thee 
iS"ot mortal, but of heavenly progeny, 
As still I do. Hast any mortal name, 
Fit appellation for this dazzling frame ? 
Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth-, 
To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth ?" 
"I have no friends," said Lamia, "no, not one ; 
\My presence in wide Corinth hardly known : 
My parents' bones are in their dusty urns 
Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns. 
Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me, 
And I neglect the holy rite for thee. 
Even as you list invite your many guests ; 
But if, as now it seems, your vision rests 
With any pleasure on me, do not bid 
Old Apollonius — from him keep me hid." 
Lycius, perplexed at words so blind and blank, 
Made close inquiry ; from whose touch she shrank, 
Feigning a sleep ; and he to the dull shade 
Of deep sleep in a moment was betrayed. 

It was the custom then to bring away 
The bride from home at blushing shut of day, 
Veiled, in a chariot, heralded along 
By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song. 
With other pageants : but this fair unknown 
Had not a friend. So being left alone 
(Lycius was gone to summon all his kin), 
And knowing surely she could never win 
His foolish heart from its mad pompousness. 
She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress 
The misery in fit magnificence. 
She did so, but 'tis doubtful how and whence 
Came, and who were her subtle servitors. 
About the halls, and to and from the doors, 



LAMIA. 



201 



There was a noise of wings, till in short s^oaee 

The glowing banquet-room shone with wicle-arched 

grace. 
A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone 
Supportress of the faery roof, made moan 
Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade. 
Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade 
Of palm and plantain, met from either side. 
High in the midst, in honor of the bride : 
Two palms and then two plantains, and so on. 
From either side their stems branched one to one 
All down the aisled place ; and beneath all 
There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to 

wall. 
So canopied, lay an untasted feast 
Teeming with odors. Lamia, regal drest, 
Silently paced about, and as she went, 
In pale contented sort of discontent, 
Missioned her viewless servants to enrich 
The fretted splendor of each nook and niche. 
Between the tree-stems marbled plain at first, 
Came jasper panels; then, anon, there burst 
Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees. 
And with the larger wove in small intricacies. 
Approving all, she faded at self-will. 
And shut the chamber up, close, hushed and still, 
Complete and ready for the revels rude, 
Wlien dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude. 

The day appeared, and all the gossip rout. 
senseless Lycius ! Madman ! wherefore flout 
The silent-blessing fate, warm cloistered hours, 
And show to common eyes these secret bowers ? 



202 LAMIA. 

The lierd approached ; each guest, with husj hrain, 
Arriving at the portal, gazed amain, 
And entered marvelling : for they knew the street, 
Remembered it from childhood all complete 
Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen 
That royal porch, that high-built, fair demesne ; 
So in they hurried all, mazed, curious and keen : 
Save one, who looked thereon with eye severe. 
And with calm-planted steps walked in austere ; 
'Twas ApoUonius : something too he laughed, 
As though some knotty problem, that had daft 
His patient thought, had now begun to thaw, 
And solve and melt: — 'twas just as he foresaw. 

He met within the murmurous vestibule 
His young disciple. " 'Tis no common rule, 
Lycius," said he, "for uninvited guest 
To force himself upon you, and infest 
"With an unbidden presence the bright throng 
Of younger friends ; yet must I do this wrong, 
And you forgive me." Lycius blushed and led 
The old man through the inner doors broad-spread ; 
With reconciling words and courteous mien. 
Turning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen. 

Of wealthy lustre was the banquet room. 
Filled with pervading brilliance and perfume : 
Before each lucid panel tuming stood 
A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood, 
Each by a sacred tripod held aloft, 
Whose slender feet wide-swerved upon the soft 
Wool-woofed carpets : fifty wreaths of smoke 
From fifty censers their light voyage took 



LAMIA. 



203 



To the liigli roof, still mimicked as they rose 
Along the mirrored walls by twin-clouds odorous. 
Twelve sphered tables by silk seats insphered, 
High as the level of a man's breast reared 
On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold 
Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told 
Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine 
Came from the gloomy tun with merry shine. 
Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood. 
Each shrining in the midst the image of a God. 

When in an antechamber every guest 
Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure pressed, 
By ministering slaves, upon his hands and feet. 
And fragrant oils with ceremony meet 
Poured on his hair, they all moved to the feast 
In white robes, and themselves in order placed 
Around the silken couches, wondering 
Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could 
spring. 

Soft went the music the soft air along. 
While fluent Greek a vowelled undersong 
Kept up among the guests, discoursing low 
At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow ; . 
But when the happy vintage touched their brains, 
Louder they talk, and louder come the strains 
Of powerful instruments :— the gorgeous dyes, 
The space, the splendor of the draperies. 
The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer, 
Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, appear, 
Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed. 
And every soul from human trammels freed, 



204 LAMIA. 

ISTo more so strange ; for merry wine, sweet wine, 

Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine. 

Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height ; 

Flushed were their cheeks, and bright eyes double bright : 

Garlands. of every green, and every scent 

From vales deflowered, or forest trees branch-rent, 

In baskets of bright osiered gold were brought 

High as the handles heaped, to suit the thought 

Of every guest ; that each, as he did please. 

Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillowed at his ease. 

What wreath for Lamia ? What for Lycius ? 
What for the sage, old Apollonius ? 
Upon her aching forehead be there hung 
The leaves of willow and of adder's tongue ; 
And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him 
The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim 
Into forgetfulness ; and, for the sage. 
Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage 
War on his temples. Do not all charms fly 
At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? 
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven : 
We know her woof, her texture ; she is given 
In the dull catalogue of common things. 
Philosophy will clip an angel's wings. 
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line. 
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine — 
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made 
The tender-personed Lamia melt into a shade. 

By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place, 
Scarce saw in all the room another face. 
Till, checking his love-trance, a cup he took 
Full brimmed, and opposite sent forth a look 



LAMIA. 205 

'Cross tlie broad table, to beseech a glance 

From his old teacher's wrinkled countenance, 

And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher 

Had fixed his eye, without a twinkle or a stir. 

Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride, 

Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet 

pride. 
Lycius then pressed her hand, with devout touch. 
As pale it lay upon the rosy couch : 
'Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins ; 
Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains 
Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. 
" Lamia, what means this ? Wherefore dost thou start ? 
Know'st thou that man ?" Poor Lamia answered not. 
He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot 
Owned they the lovelorn piteous appeal: 
More, more he gazed : his human senses reel : 
Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs ; 
There was no recognition in those orbs. 
"Lamia!" he cried — and no soft-toned reply. 
The- many heard, and the loud revelry 
Grew hush ; the stately music no more breathes ; 
The myrtle sickened in a thousand wreaths. 
By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased ; 
A deadly silence step by step increased, 
Until it seemed a horrid presence there, 
And not a man but felt the terror in his hair. 
"Lamia!" he shrieked; and nothing but the shriek 
With its sad echo did the silence break. 
"Begone, foul dream!" he cried, gazing again 
In the bride's face, where now no azure vein 
Wandered on fair-spaced temples ; no soft bloom 
Misted the cheek ; no passion to illume 



SC" LAMIA. 

The deep-recessed vision : — all was blight ; 

Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white. 

" Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man ! 

Turn them aside, wretch ! or the righteous ban 

Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images 

Here represent their shadowy presences. 

May pierce them on the sudden witli the thorn 

Of painful blindness ; leaving thee forlorn. 

In tremblino; dotage to the feeblest fright 

Of conscience, for their long-offended might. 

For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries. 

Unlawful magic, and enticing lies. 

Corinthians ! look upon that gray-beard wretch ! 

Mark how, possessed, his lashless eyelids stretch 

Around his demon eyes ! Corinthians, see ! 

My sweet bride withers at their potenc3^" 

"Fool!" said the sophist, in an undertone 

Gruff with contempt ; which a death-nighing moan 

From Lycius answered, as heart-struck and lost 

He sank supine beside the aching ghost. 

"Fool ! fool !" repeated he, while his eyes still 

Relented not, nor moved ; " from every ill 

Of life have I preserved thee to this day. 

And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey?" 

Then Lamia breathed death-breath ; the sophist's eye, 

Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly, 

Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging : she, as well 

As her weak hand could any meaning tell, 

Motioned him to be silent ; vainly so. 

He looked and looked again a level — ISTo ! 

"A serpent!" echoed he; no sooner said, 

Than with a frightful scream she vanished : 

And Lycius' arms were empty of delight, 



LAMIA. 207 

As were his limbs of life, from that same night. 
On the high couch he lay ! — his friends came round — 
Supported him — no pulse or breath they found, 
And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.* 

* " Philostratiis, in his fourth book, de Vita ^poUonii, batli a memorable in- 
stance in this kind, which I may not omit, of one Menippus Lycius, a young 
man twenty-five years of age, that, going betwixt Cenchreas and Corinth, 
met such a phantasm in the habit of a fair gentlewoman, which, taking him 
by the hand, carried him home to her house, in the suburbs of Corinth, and 
told him she was a Phoenician by birth, and if he would tarry with her, he 
should hear her sing and play, and drink such wine as never any drank, and 
no man should molest him ; but -she, being fair and lovely, would die with 
him, that was fair and lovely to behold. The young man, a philosopher, 
otherwise staid and discreet, able to moderate his passions, though not this 
of love, tarried with her awhile to his great content, and at last married her, 
to whose wedding, amongst other guests, came ApoUonius ; who, by some 
probable conjectures, found her out to be a serpent, a lamia ; and that all her 
furniture was, like Tantalus' gold, described by Homer, no substance, but 
mere illusions. When she saw herself descried, she wept, and desired 
Apollonius to be silent, but he would not be moved, and thereupon she, plate, 
house, and all that was in it, vanished in an instant; many thousands took 
notice of this fact, for it was done in the midst of Greece."— Burton's Jna- 
tomy of Melancholy, Part 3, Sect. 2, Menib. I., Subs I. 



ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL. 



A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO. 



I. 

Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! 

Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye ! 
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell 

Without some stir of heart, some malady ; 
They could not sit at meals but feel how well 

It soothed each to be the other by ; 
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep, 
But to each other dream, and nightly weep. 

II. 
With every morn their love grew tenderer, 

With every eve deeper and tenderer still ; 
He might not in house, field, or garden stir. 

But her full shape would all his seeing fill ; 
And his continual voice was pleasanter 

To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill ; 
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name. 
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same. 

III. 
He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, 
Before the door had given her to his eyes ; 



ISABELLA. 209 

And from her chamber-window he wonkl catch 
Her beauty farther than the falcon spies ; 

And constant as her vespers would he watch, 
Because her face was turned to the same skies ; 

And with sick longing all the night outwear, 

To hear her morning-step upon the stair. 

IV. 

A whole long month of May in this sad plight 

Made their cheeks paler by the break of June : 
" To-morrow will I bow to my delight, 

To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon." — 
"0 may I never see another night, 

Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune." — 
So spake they to their pillows ; but, alas, 

Honeyless days and days did he let pass ; 

v. 

Until sweet Isabella's untouched cheek 
Fell sick within the rose's just domain. 

Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek 
By every lull to cool her infant's pain : 

"How ill she is !" said he, "I may not speak, 
And yet I will, and tell my love all plain : • 

If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears. 

And at the least 'twill startle oft" her cares." 

VI. 

So said he one fair morning, and all day, 
His heart beat awfully against his side ; 

And to his heart he inwardly did pray 

For power to speak ; but still the ruddy tide 

Stifled his voice, and pulsed resolve awa}- — 
Fevered his high conceit of such a bride, 

14 



210 ISABELLA. 

Yet brought him to the meekness of a child : 
Alas ! when passion is both meek and wild ! 

VII. 

So once more he had waked and anguished 

A dreary night of love and misery, 
If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed 

To every symbol on his forehead high ; 
She saw it waxing very pale and dead, 

And straight all flushed : so, lisped tenderly, 
"Lorenzo !" — here she ceased her timid quest. 
But in her tone and look he read the rest. 

VIII. 

" Isabella ! I can half perceive 

That I may speak my grief into thine ear ; 

If thou didst ever anything believe. 

Believe how I love thee, believe how near 

My soul is to its doom : I would not grieve 

Thy hj^nd by unwelcome pressing, would not fear 

Thine eyes by gazing ; but I caniK)t live 

Another night, and not my passion shrive. 

IX. 

"Love ! thou art leading me from wintry cold. 
Lady ! thou leadest me to summer clime. 

And I must taste the blossoms that unfold 

In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time." 

So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold. 
And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme ; 

Great bliss was with them, and great happiness 

Grew, like a lusty flower in June's caress. 



N 



ISABELLA. 211 

X. 

Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, 
Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart 

Only to meet again more close, and share 
The inward fragrance of each other's heart. 

She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair 
Sang, of delicious love and honeyed dart ; 

He with light steps went up a western hill. 

And bade the sun farewell, and joyed his fill. 

XI. 

All close they met again, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, 

All close they met, all eves, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil. 

Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk. 
Unknown of any, free from whispering tale. 

Ah ! better had it been for ever so. 

Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe. 

XII. 

Were they unhappy then ? — It cannot be — 
Too many tears for lovers have been shed, 

Too many sighs give we to them in fee, 
Too much of pity after they are dead. 

Too many doleful stories do we see, 
"Whose matter in bright gold were best be read ; 

Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse 

Over the pathless waves towards him bows. 

XIII. 

But, for the general award of love. 

The little sweet doth kill much bitterness ; 



212 ^ ISABELLA. 

Though Dido silent is in under-grove, ..-^ 

And Isabella's was a great distress, 
Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove 

"Was not embalmed, this truth is not the less — ''.' ' 
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers, 
Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers. 

XIV. 

"With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, 

Enriched from ancestral merchandise. 
And for them many a weary hand did swelt 

In torched mines and noisy factories, 
And many once proud-quivered loins did melt 

In blood from stinging whip ; with hollow eyes 
Many all day in dazzling river stood, 
To take the rich-ored drifting s of the flood. 

XV. 

For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, 
And went all naked to the hungry shark ; 

For them his ears gushed blood ; for them in death 
The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark 

Lay full of darts ; for them alone did seethe 
A thousand men in troubles wide and dark ; 

Half-ignorant, they turned an easy wheel. 

That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel. 

XVI. 

Why were they proud ? Because their marble founts 
Gushed with more pride than do a wretch's tears ? 

Why were they proud ? Because fair orange-mounts 
Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs ? 

Why were they proud ? Because red-lined accounts 
Were richer than the songs of Grecian years ? 



3 



ISABELLA. 



213 



Why were they proud ? again we ask aloud, 
"Why ill the name of Glory were they proud ? 

' XVII. 

Yet were these Florentines as self-retired 
In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, 

As two close Hehrews in that land inspired, 
Paled in and vineyarded from heggar-spies ; 

The hawks of ship-mast forests — the untired 
And panniered mules for ducats and old lies — 

Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray-away, — 

Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. 

XVIII. 

How was it these same ledger-men could spy 

Fair Isabella in her downy nest ? 
How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye 

A straying from his toil ? Hot Egypt's pest 
Into their vision covetous and sly ! 

How could these money-bags see east and west ? 
Yet so they did — and every dealer fair 
Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. 

XIX. 

eloquent and famed Boccaccio ! 

Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon. 
And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow, 

And of thy roses amorous of the moon. 
And of thy lilies, that do paler grow 

Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune, 
For venturing syllables that ill beseem 
The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. 



214 



ISABELLA. 



XX. 

Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale 

Shall move on soberly, as it is meet ; 
There is no other crime, no mad assail 

To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet ; 
But it is done — succeed the verse or fail — 

To honor thee, and thy gone spirit greet ; 
To stead thee as a verse in English tongue, 
An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. 

XXI. 

These brethren having found by many signs 
What love Lorenzo for their sister had, 

And how she loved him too, each unconfines 
His bitter thoughts to other, well-nigh mad 

That he, the servant of their trade designs, 

Should in their sister's love be blithe and glad, 

When 'twas their plan to coax her by degrees 

To some high noble and his olive-trees. 

XXII. 

And many a jealous conference had they. 
And many times they bit their lips alone, 

Before they fixed upon a surest way 

To make the youngster for his crime atone ; "* 

And at the last, these men of cruel clay 
Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone : 

For they resolved in some forest dim 

To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. 

XXIII. 

So on a pleasant morning, as he leant 
Lito the sunrise, o'er the balustrade 



ISABELLA. 



215 



Of the garden-terrace, towards him tliey bent 

Their footing through the dews ; and to him said, 

"You seem there in the quiet of content, 
Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade 

Calm speculation ; but if you are wise, 

Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies. 

XXIV. 

" To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount 
To spur three leagues towards the Apennine ; 

Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count 
His dewy rosary on the eglantine." 

Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont. 

Bowed a fair greeting to these serpents' whine ; 

And went in haste, to get in readiness. 

With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman's dress. 

XXV. 

And as he to the court-yard passed along, 
Each third step did he pause, and listened oft 

If he could hear his lady's matin-song. 
Or the light whisper of her footstep soft ; 

And as he thus over his passion hung. 
He heard a laugh full musical aloft ; 

When, looking up, he saw her features bright 

Smile through an in-door lattice all delight. 

XXVI. 

"Love, Isabel !" said he, " I was in pain 
Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow : 

Ah ! what if I should lose thee, when so fain 
I am to stifle all the hea\7 sorrow 

Of a poor three hours' absence ? but we'll gain 
Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow. 



216 ISABELLA. 

Good bye ! I'll soon be back." — " Good bye !" said she : 
And as lie went she chanted merrily. 

XXVII. 

So the two brothers and their murdered man 
Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream 

Gurgles through straightened banks, and still doth fan 
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream 

Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan 
The brothers' faces in the ford did seem, 

Lorenzo's flush with love. They passed the water 

Into a forest quiet for the slaughter. 

XXVIII. 

There was Lorenzo slain and buried in. 

There in that forest did his great love cease. 

Ah ! when a soul doth thus its freedom win. 
It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace 

As the break-covert bloodhounds of such sin : 

They dipped their swords in the water, and did tease 

Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur, 

Each richer by his being a murderer. 

XXIX. 

They told their sister how, with sudden speed, 
Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands, 

Because of some great urgency and need 
In their aifairs, requiring trusty hands. 

Poor girl ! put on thy stifling widow's weed. 

And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed bands ; 

To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, 

And the next day will be a day of sorrow. 



ISABELLA. 217 

XXX. 

She weeps alone for pleasures not to be ; 

Sorely she wept until the night came on, 
And then, instead of love, O misery ! 

She brooded o'er the luxury alone : 
His image in the dusk she seemed to see. 

And to the silence made a gentle moan, 
Spreading her perfect arms upon the air. 
And on her couch low murmuring, " Where? where?" 

XXXI. 

But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long 

Its fiery vigil in her single breast ; 
She fretted for the golden hour, and hung 

Upon the time with feverish unrest — 
IN'ot long ; for soon into her heart a throng 

Of higher occupants, a richer zest. 
Came tragic ; passion not to be subdued, 
And sorrow for her love in travels rude. 

• XXXII. 

In the mid days of autumn, on their eves 
The breath of Winter comes from far away, 

And the sick west continually bereaves 
Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay 

Of death among the bushes and the leaves. 
To make all bare before he dares to stray 

From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel 

By gradual decay from beauty fell, 

XXXIII. 

Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes 

She asked her brothers, with an eye all pale, 



218 



ISABELLA. 



Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes 

Could keep him oft" so long ? They spake a tale 

Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes 

Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom's vale ; 

And every night in dreams they groaned aloud, 

To see their sister in her snoAvy shroud. 

XXXIV. 

And she had died in drowsy ignorance, 
But for a thing more deadly dark than all ; 

It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance, 
Which saves a sick man from the feathered pall 

For some few gasping moments ; like a lance, 
"Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall 

With cruer pierce, and bringing him again 

Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain. 

XXXV. 

It was a vision. In the drowsy gloom. 
The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot 

Lorenzo stood, and wept : the forest tomb 

Had marred his glossy hair which once could shoot 

Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom 
Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute 

From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears 

Had made a miry channel for his tears. 

XXXVI. 

Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake ; 

For there was striving, in its piteous tongue, 
To speak as when on earth it was awake, 

And Isabella on its music hung : 
Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake, 

As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung ; 



I 



ISABELLA. 



219 



And througli it moaned a ghostly under-song, 
Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briers among. 

XXXVII. 

Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright 
"With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof 

From the poor girl by magic of their light, 
The while it did unthread the horrid woof 

Of the late darkened time — the murderous spite 
Of pride and avarice — the dark pine roof 

In the forest — and the sodden turfed dell, 

Where, without any word, from stabs he fell. 

XXXVIII. 

Saying moreover, " Isabel, my sweet ! 

Red whortle-berries droop above my head, 
And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet ; 

Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed 
Their leaves and prickly nuts ; a sheep-fold bleat 

Comes from beyond the river to my bed : 
Go, shed one tear upon my heather bloom, 
And it shall comfort me within the tomb. 

XXXIX. 

"I am a shadow now, alas ! alas ! 

Upon the skirts of human nature dwelling 
Alone : I chant alone the holy mass, 

Wliile little sounds of life are round me knelling. 
And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass. 

And many a chapel bell the hour is telling. 
Paining me through : those sounds grow strange to me 
And thou art distant in Humanity. 



220 ISABELLA. 



XL. 



" I know what was, I feel full well what is, 
And I should rage, if spirits could go mad ; 

Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss, 

That paleness warms my grave, as though I had 

A seraph chosen from the bright abyss 

To be my spouse : thy paleness makes me glad : 

Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel 

A greater love through all my essence steal." 

XLI. 

The Spirit mourned " Adieu !" — dissolved, and left 
The atom darkness in a slow turmoil ; 

As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft, 
Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil, 

y^e put our eyes into a pillowy cleft. 

And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil : 

It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache. 

And in the dawn she started up awake ; 

XLII. 

" Ha ! ha !" said she, " I knew not this hard life, 
I thought the worst was simple misery ; 

I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife 
Portioned us — happy days, or else to die ; 

But there is crime — a brother's bloody knife ! 
Sweet Spirit, thou hast schooled my infancy : 

I'll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes. 

And greet thee morn and even in the skies." 

XLIII. 

When the full morning came, she had devised 
How she might secret to the forest hie ; 



ISABELLA. 221 

How she might find the clay, so dearly prized, 

And sing to it one latest lullaby ; 
How her short absence might be unsurmised, 

"While she the inmost of the dream would try. 
Eesolved, she took with her an aged nurse, 
And went into that dismal forest-hearse. 

XLIV. 

See, as they creep along the river side. 
How she doth whisper to that aged dame, 

And, after looking round the champaign wide, 
Shows her a knife. — " What feverous hectic flame 

Burns in thee, child ? — what good can thee betide. 
That thou shouldst smile again ?" — The evening came, 

And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed ; 

The flint was there, the berries at his head. 

XLV. 

Wlio hath not loitered in a green churchyard. 

And let his spirit, like a demon mole, 
Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard. 

To see skull, coffined bones, and funeral stole ; 
Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marred, 

And filling it once more with human soul ? 
Ah ! this is holiday to what was felt 
When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 

XLVI. 

She gazed into the fresh-thrown mould, as though 

One glance did fully all its secrets tell ; 
Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know. 

Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well ; 
Upon the murderous spot she seemed to grow, 

Like to a native lily of the dell : 



222 ISABELLA. 

Then with her knife all sudden she hegan 
To dig more fervently than misers can. 

XLVII. 

Soon she turned up a soiled glove, whereon 
Her silk had played in purple phantasies ; 

She kissed it with a lip more chill than stone, 
And put it in her hosom, where it dries, 

And freezes utterly unto the bone 

Those dainties made to still an infant's cries : 

Then 'gan she work again ; nor stayed her care. 

But to throw back at times her veiling hair. 

XLVIII. 

That old nurse stood beside her wondering, 
Until her heart felt pity to the core 

At sight of such a dismal laboring, 

And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar. 

And put her lean hands to the horrid thing : 
Three hours they labored at this travail sore ; 

At last they felt the kernel of the grave, 

And Isabella did not stamp and rave. 

XLIX. 

Ah ! wherefore all this wormy circumstance ? 

Wliy linger at the yawning tomb so long ? 
for the gentleness of old Romance, 

The simple plaining of a minstrel's song ! 
Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance. 

For here, in truth, it doth not well belong 
To speak : — turn thee to the very tale, 
And taste the music of that vision pale. 



ISABELLA. 



223 



With duller steel than the Persian sword, 
They cut away no formless monster's head, 

But one, whose gentleness did well accord 

"With death, as life. The ancient harps have said. 

Love never dies, hut lives, immortal Lord : 
If Love impersonate was ever dead, 

Pale Isabella kissed it, and low moaned. 

'Twas love ; cold, — dead indeed, hut not dethroned. 



LI. 



In anxious secrecy they took it home, 
And then the prize was all for Isabel : 

She calmed its wild hair with a golden comb, 
And all around each eye's sepulchral cell 

Pointed each fringed lash ; the smeared loam 
With tears, as chilly as a dripping well. 

She drenched away : and still she combed and kept 

Sighing all day — and still she kissed and wept. 

LII. 

Then in a silken scarf, — sweet with the dews 
Of precious flowers plucked in Araby, 

And divine liquids come with odorous ooze 
Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully, — 

She wrapped it up ; and for its tomb did choose 
A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by, 

And covered it with mould, and o'er it set 

Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. 

LIII. 

And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun. 
And she foro-ot the blue above the trees, 



224 ISABELLA. 

And she forgot tlie dells where waters run, 
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; 

She had no knowledge when the day was done, 
And the new morn she saw not: but in peace 

Hung over her sweet Basil evermore, 

And moistened it with tears unto the core. 



LIV. 

And so she ever fed it with thin tears, 

Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, 

So that it smelt more balmy than its peers 
Of Basil-tufts in Florence ; for it drew 

Nurture besides, and life, from human fears. 

From the fast mouldering head there shut from view: 

So that the jewel, safely casketed, 

Came forth, and in perfumed leaflets spread. 

LV. 

O Melancholy, linger here awhile I 

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 

Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle. 
Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — sigh ! 

Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile; 
Lift up your heads, sweet spirits, heavily. 

And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, 

Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. 

LVI. 

Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe. 

From the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! 

Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go. 
And touch the strings into a mystery ; 

Sound mournfully upon the winds and low ; 
For simple Isabel is soon to be 



ISABELLA. 225 

Among the dead : she withers, like a pahn 
Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. 

LVII. 

leave the palm to wither by itself; 

Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour ! — 
It may not be — those Baalites of pelf, 

Her brethren, noted the continual shower 
From her dead eyes ; and many a curious elf, 

Among her kindred, wondered that such dower 
Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside 
By one marked out to be a noble's bride. 

LVIII. 

And, furthermore, her brethren wondered much 
"Why she sat drooping by the Basil green,- 

And why it flourished, as by magic touch ; 

Greatly they wondered what the thing might mean : 

They could not surely give belief, that such 
A very nothing would have power to wean 

Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, 

And even remembrance of her love's delay. 

LIX. 

Therefore they watched a time when they might sift 
This hidden whim ; and long they watched in vain ; 

For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift. 
And seldom felt she any hunger-pain : 

And when she left, she hurried back, as swift 
As bird on wing to breast its eggs again : 

And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 

Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. 

"l5 

i 



2^6 



ISABELLA. 



LX. 

Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, 

And to examine it in secret place : 
The thing was vile with green and livid spot, 

And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face : 
The guerdon of their murder they had got. 

And so left Florence in a moment's space, 
Never to turn again. — Away they went, 
With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 

LXI. 

Melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! 

Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
O Echo, Echo, on some other day. 

From isles Lethean, sigh to us — sigh ! 
Spirits of grief, sing not your " Well-a-way !" 

For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die ; 
Will die a death too lone and incomplete, 
Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. 

LXII. 

Piteous she looked on dead and senseless things, 
Asking for her lost Basil amorously : 

And with melodious chuckle in the strings 
Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry 

After the Pilgrim in his wanderings. 

To ask him where her Basil was ; and why 

'Twas hid from her: '-For cruel 'tis," said she, 

"To steal my Basil-pot away from me." 

LXIII. 

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn. 
Imploring for her Basil to the last. 



ISABELLA. 227 

Xo heart was there in Florence but did mourn 

In pity of her love, so overcast. 
And a sad ditty of this story borne 

From moutlito mouth through all the country passed : 
Still is the burden sung — " cruelty, 
To steal my Basil-pot away from me !" 



THE EYE or ST. AGNES. 



I. 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass ; 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
N"umb were the Beadsman's fingers while he told 
His rosar}^, and while his frosted breath, 
\Like pious incense from a censer old,,} 
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 

II. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
The sculptured dead, on each side seem to freeze, 
Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails : 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 




/// A/' 



'/.: 7. c^y/y^/y^^J 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES, 229 

III. 

Northward he tiirnetli tlirougli a little door, 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ; 
But no — already had his death-bell rung ; 
The joys of all his life were said and sung : 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to grieve. 

IV. 

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide. 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide : 
The level chambers, ready with their pride. 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their 
breasts. 



At length burst in the argent revelry, 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
l^umerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new-stuffed, in youth, with triumphs gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away. 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day. 
On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care. 
As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 



230 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 

VI. 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honeyed middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
I^or look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 

VII. 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline : 
The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, 
Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 
And back retired ; not cooled by high disdain, 
But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere ; 
She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year, 

VIII. 

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short : 
The hallowed hour was near at hand : she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwinked with faery fancy ; all amort, 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



231 



IX. 

So, purposing eacli moment to retire, 
She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors, 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours. 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things 
have been. 



X. 

He ventures in : let no buzzed whisper tell : 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart. Love's feverous citadel : 
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage : not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
Save one old beldam, weak in body and in soul. 

XI. 

Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came. 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 
He startled her ; but soon she knew his face, 
And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand. 
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place ; 
They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race ! 



232 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 

XII. 

" Get lience ! get hence ! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land : 
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
More tame fi)r his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit ! 
Flit like a ghost away." — "Ah, Gossip dear. 
We're safi3 enough ; here in this arm-chair sit, 
And tell me how" — " Good saints ! not here, not here ; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." 

XIII. 

He followed through a lowly arched way, 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; 
And as she muttered "Well-a — well-a-day!" 
He found him in a little moonlight room. 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
" O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
Which none but secret sisterhood may see. 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 

XIV. 

" St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve- 
Yet men will murder upon holy days : 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help ! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
This very night: good angels her deceive ! 
JBut let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve." 



THEEVEOFST. AGNES. 233 

XV. 

Feebly slie laiigliecl in the languid moon, 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book. 
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, w^hen she told 
His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 

XVI. 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot : then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldam start : 
"A cruel man and impious thou art: 
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." 

XVII. 

" I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 
Quoth Porphyro : " O may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face : 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space. 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears. 
And beard them, though they be more fanged than 
wolves and bears." 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



XVIII. 



" Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, 
"Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth she bring 
A gentler speech fi-om burning Porphyro ; 
So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing. 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 

XIX. 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty unespied, 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride. 
While legioned fairies paced the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Kever on such a night have lovers met. 
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 

XX. 

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: 
"All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast-night : by the tambour frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to spare, 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in prayer 
The while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed, 
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 



THEEVEOFST. AGNES. 235 

XXI. 

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly passed ; 
The Dame returned, and whispered in his ear 
To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, and chaste ; 
"Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 

XXII. 

Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid. 
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware : 
With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
She turned, and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove frayed and 
fled. 

XXIII. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in : 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died : 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
No uttered syllable, or, w^oe betide ! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart stifled, in her dell. 



2S6 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 

XXIV. 

A casement high and triple-arched there was, 
All garlanded with cary#n imageries 
Of fruits, and flowers, atid bunches of knot-grass, 
And diamonded with panes of quaint device. 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings ; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and 
kings. 

XXV. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
And on her hair a glor}^, like a saint : 
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, 
Save wings, for heaven : Porphyro grew faint : 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 

I 

XXVI. 

Anon his heart revives : her vespers done. 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 



THEEVEOFST. AGNES. 237 

XXVII. 

Soon, trembling in lier soft and chilly nest, 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay, 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
Blissfully havened both from joy and pain ; 
Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 

XXVIII. 

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress. 
And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness : 
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. 
And breathed himself ; then from the closet crept, 
]!^oiseless as fear in a wide wilderness 
And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept. 
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo ! — how fast she 
slept. 

XXIX. 

Then by the bedside, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



XXX. 



And still slie slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered, 
Wliile he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 
"With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. 

XXXI. 

These delicates he heaped with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night, 
Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 
" And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 

XXXII. 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
It seemed he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phantasies. 



THEEVEOFST. AGNES. 239 

XXXIII. 

Awakening up, lie took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest he, 
He played an ancient ditty, long since mute. 
In Provence called " La belle dame sans mercy :" 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan : 
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 
Her blue affi-ayed eyes wide open shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
I^ow wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
There was a painful change, that night expelled 
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep. 
At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
"While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye. 
Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

" Ah, Porphyro !" said she, " but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear. 
Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : 
How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear ! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! 
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." 



240 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 

XXXVI. 

Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
At tliese voluptuous accents, lie arose, 
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star 
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
Solution sweet : meantime the frost-wind blows 
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 

XXXVII. 

'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet : 
" This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline !" 
'Tis dark : the iced gusts still rave and beat : 
"No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — 
Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? 
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — 
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." 

XXXVIII. 

" My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest. 
A famished pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel." 



THEEVEOFST. AGNES. 241 



XXXIX. 



" Hark ! 'tis an elfin storm fi'om faery land, 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand ; — 
The bloated wassailers will never heed : — 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed : 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drowned all in Ehenish and the sleepy mead: 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be. 
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." 

XL. 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears. 
For there were sleeping dragons all around. 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found, 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door ; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound. 
Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar ; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 

XLI. 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ! 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide. 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
The wakef^il bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 
But his sagacious eje an inmate owns : 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : — 
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 

16 



2t2 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



XLII. 



And tliey are gone : ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm. 
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 
Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform ; 
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told. 
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 



HYPERION. 



BOOK I. 

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 

Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, 

Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star. 

Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone. 

Still as the silence round about his lair ; 

Forest on forest hung about his head 

Like cloud on cloud. I^o stir of air was there, 

I^ot so much life as on a summer's day 

Robs not one light seed from the feathered grass. 

But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. 

A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more 

By reason of his fallen divinity 

Spreading a shade : the Kaiad 'mid her reeds 

Pressed her cold finger closer to her lips. 

Along the margin-sand large footmarks went, 
'No further than to where his feet had strayed. 
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground 
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead. 
Unsceptred ; and his realmless eyes were closed ; 
While his bowed head seemed listening to the Earth, 
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 



244 



HYPERION. 



It seemed no force could wake him from his place ; 
But there came one, who with a kindred hand 
Touched his wide shoulders, after bending low 
With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 
She was a Goddess of the infant world ; 
By her in stature the tall Amazon 
Had stood a pigmy's height : she would have ta'en 
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ; 
Or with a finger stayed Ixion's wheel. 
Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, 
Pedestalled haply in a palace court, 
"When sages looked to Egypt for their lore. 
But oh ! how unlike marble was that face : 
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made 
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. 
There was a listening fear in her regard. 
As if calamity had but begun ; 
As if the vanward clouds of evil days 
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 
Was with its stored thunder laboring up. 
One hand she pressed upon that aching spot 
Wliere beats the human heart, as if just there, 
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain : 
The other upon Saturn's bended neck 
She laid, and to the level of his ear 
Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake 
In solemn tenor and deep organ tone : 
Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue 
Would come in these like accents ; O how frail 
To that large utterance of the early Gods ! 
" Saturn, look up ! — though wherefore, poor old King ? 
I have no comfort for thee, no not one : 
I cannot say, ' O wherefore sleepest thou ?' 
For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth 



HYPERION. 245 

Knows thee not, tlius afflicted, for a God ; 
And ocean, too, with all its solemn noise, 
Has from thy sceptre passed ; and all the air 
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 
Thy thnnder, conscious of the new command, 
Rumhles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 
And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands 
Scorches and hums our once serene domain. 
aching time ! moments hig as years ! 
All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth, 
And press it so upon our weary griefs 
That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
Saturn, sleep on : — thoughtless, why did I 
Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ? 
Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? 
Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I weep." 

As when, upon a tranced summer-night, 
Those green-robed senators of mighty woods. 
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, 
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, 
Save from one gradual solitary gust 
Wliich comes upon the silence, and dies off, 
As if the ebbing air had but one wave : 
So came these words and went ; the while in tears 
She touched her fair large forehead to the ground, 
Just where her falling hair might be outspread 
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 
One moon, with alteration slow, had shed 
Her silver seasons four upon the night. 
And still these two were postured motionless. 
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ; 
The frozen God still cou chant on the earth. 
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet : 



24G 



HYPERION. 



Until at length old Saturn lifted up 

His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone, 

And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, 

And that fair kneeling Goddess ; and then spake 

As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard 

Shook horrid with such aspen-malady : 

" tender spouse of gold Hyperion, 

Tliea, I feel thee ere I see thy face ; 

Look up, and let me see our doom in it; 

Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape 

Is Saturn's ; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice 

Of Saturn ; tell me, if this wrinkling brow, 

Naked and bare of its great diadem. 

Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had power 

To make me desolate ? whence came the strength ? 

How was it nurtured to such bursting forth. 

While Fate seemed strangled in my nervous grasp ? 

But it is so ; and I am smothered up. 

And buried from all godlike exercise 

Of influence benign on planets pale. 

Of admonitions to the winds and seas. 

Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting. 

And all those acts which Deity supreme 

Doth ease its heart of love in. I am gone 

Away from my own bosom : I have left 

My strong identity, my real self, 

Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit 

Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, search ! 

Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round 

Upon all space : space starred, and lorn of light : 

Space regioned with life-air, and barren void ; 

Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell. 

Search, Thea, search ! and tell me if thou seest 

A certain shape or shadow, making way 



HYPERION. 247 

Witli wings or chariot fierce to repossess 

A heaven he lost erewhile : it must — it must 

Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be king. 

Yes, there must be a goklen victory ; 

There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets blown 

Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival 

Upon the gold clouds metropolitan, 

Voices of soft prolcaim, and silver stir 

Of strings in hollow shells ; and there shall be 

Beautiful things made new, for the surprise 

Of the sky children ; I will give command : 

Thea ! Thea ! Thea ! where is Saturn ?" 

This passion lifted him upon his feet. 
And made his hands to struggle in the air, 
His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat, 
His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease. 
He stood, and heard not Tliea's sobbing deep ; 
A little time, and then again he snatched 
Utterance thus : — " But cannot I create ? 
Cannot I form ? cannot I fashion forth 
Another world, another universe. 
To overbear and crumble this to nought ? 
Where is another chaos ? "Where ?" That word 
Found way unto Olympus, and made quake 
The rebel three. Thea was startled up. 
And in her bearing was a sort of hope. 
As thus she quick-voiced spake, yet full of awe. 

" This cheers our fallen house : come to our friends, 

Saturn ! come away, and give them heart ; 

1 know the covert, for thence came I hither." 
Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she went 
With backward footing through the shade a space : 



248 HYPERION. 

He followed, and she turned to lead tlie way 
Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist 
Which eagles cleave, upmounting from their nest. 

Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed, 
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe. 
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe : 
The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound, 
Groaned for the old allegiance once more, 
And listened in sharp pain for Saturn's voice. 
But one of the whole mammoth-brood still kept 
His sovereignty, and rule, and majesty; 
Blazing Hyj^erion on his orbed fire 
Still sat, still snuft'ed the incense, teeming up 
From man to the sun's God, yet unsecure : 
For as among us mortals omens drear 
Fright and perplex, so also shuddered he, 
l^ot at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated screech, 
Or the familiar visiting of one 
Upon the first toll of his passing-bell. 
Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp ; 
But horrors, portioned to a giant nerve. 
Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace bright, 
Bastioned with pyramids of glowing gold. 
And touched with shade of bronzed obelisks. 
Glared a blood-red through all its thousand courts, 
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ; 
And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 
Flushed angerly : while sometimes eagles' wings. 
Unseen before by Gods or wondering men, 
Darkened the place ; and neighing steeds were heard, 
E'ot heard before by Gods or wondering men. 
Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths 
Of incense, breathed aloft from sacred hills, 



HYPERION. 2J9 

Instead of sweets, his ample palate took 

Savor of poisonous brass and metal sick : 

And so, when harbored in the sleepy west, 

After the full completion of fair day, 

For rest divine upon exalted couch, 

And slumber in the arms of melody, 

He paced away the pleasant hours of ease 

"With stride colossal, on from hall to hall ; 

While far within each aisle and deep recess. 

His winged minions in close clusters stood, 

Amazed and full of fear ; like anxious men 

Who on wide plains gather in panting troops, 

When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers. 

Even now, while Saturn, roused from icy trance, 

Went step for step with Thea through the woods, 

Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear. 

Came slope upon the threshold of the west ; 

Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope 

In smoothed silence, save what solemn tubes. 

Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet 

And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melodies ; 

And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape, 

In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye. 

That inlet to severe magnificence 

Stood full blown, for the God to enter in. 

He entered, but he entered full of wrath ; 
His flaming robes streamed out beyond his heels, 
And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire, 
That scared away the meek ethereal Hours 
And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared. 
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault. 
Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light. 
And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades. 



250 HYPERION. 



Until he reached the great main cupola ; 
There standing fierce beneath, he stampt his foot, 
And from the basements deep to the high towers 
Jarred his own golden region ; and before 
The quavering thunder thereupon had ceased, 
His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb, 
To this result : "0 dreams of day and night ! 
O monstrous forms ! O effigies of pain ! 
O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom ! 

lank-eared Phantoms of black-weeded pools ! 
"Why do I know ye ? why have I seen ye ? why 
Is my eternal essence thus distraught 

To see and to behold these horrors new ? 
Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall ? 
Am I to leave this haven of my rest, 
This cradle of my glory, this soft clime, 
This calm luxuriance of blissful light. 
These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes. 
Of all my lucent empire ? It is left 
Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine. 
The blaze, the splendor, and the symmetry, 

1 cannot see — ^but darkness, death and darkness. 
Even here, into my centre of repose. 

The shady visions come to domineer, 

Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp — 

Fall ! — No, by Tellus and her briny robes ! 

Over the fiery frontier of my realms 

I will advance a terrible right arm 

Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel Jove, 

And bid old Saturn take his throne again." 

He spake, and ceased, the while a heavier threat 

Held struggle with his throat, but came not forth ; 

For as in theatres of crowded men 

Hubbub increases more they call out " Hush !" 



HYPERION. 251 

So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms pale 

Bestirred themselves, thrice horrible and cold ; 

And from the mirrored level where he stood 

A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh. 

At this, through all his bulk an agony 

Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crown. 

Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular 

Making slow way, with head and neck convulsed 

From overstrained might. Released, he fled 

To the eastern gates, and full six dewy hours 

Before the dawn in season due should blUsh, 

He breathed fierce breath against the sleepy portals, 

Cleared them of heavy vapors, burst them wide 

Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams. 

The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode 

Each day from east to west the heavens through. 

Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds ; 

Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and hid, 

But ever 'and anon the glancing spheres. 

Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure, 

Glowed through, and wrought upon the muffling dark 

Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir deep 

Up to the zenith — hieroglyphics old. 

Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers 

Then living on the earth, with laboring thought 

Won from the gaze of many centuries : 

Now lost, save what we find on remnants huge 

Of stone, or marble swart ; their import gone, 

Their wisdom long since fled. Two wings this orb 

Possessed for glory, two fair argent wings. 

Ever exalted at the God's approach : 

And now, from forth the gloom their plumes immense 

Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were ; 

While still the dazzling globe maintained eclipse, 



'- HYPERION. 

Awaiting for Hj^perion's command. 

Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne 

And bid the day begin, if but for change. 

He might not : — No, though a primeval God : 

The sacred seasons might not be disturbed. 

Therefore the operations of the dawn 

Stayed in their birth, even as here 'tis told. 

Those silver wings expanded sisterly, 

Eager to sail their orb ; the porches wide 

Oj)ened upon the dusk demesnes of night ; 

And the bright Titan, phrenzied with new woes, 

Unused to bend, by hard compulsion bent 

His spirit to the sorrow of the time ; 

And all along a dismal rack of clouds, 

Upon the boundaries of day and night. 

He stretched himself in grief and radiance faint. 

There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars 

Looked down on him with pity, and the voice 

Of Ccelus, from the universal space. 

Thus whispered low and solemn in his ear : 

" brightest of my children dear, earth-born 

And sky-engendered. Son of Mysteries ! 

All unrevealed even to the powers 

Which met at thy creating ! at whose joys 

And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft, 

I, Ccelus, wonder how they came and whence ; 

And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be, 

Distinct, and visible ; symbols divine. 

Manifestations of that beauteous life 

Diffused unseen throughout eternal space ; 

Of these new-formed art thou, oh brightest child ! 

Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses ! 

There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion 

Of son against his sire. I saw him fall, 



HYPERION. 253 

I saw my firstborn tumbled from his throne ! 

To me his arms were spread, to me his voice 

Found way from forth the thunders round his head ! 

Pale wox I, and in vapors hid my face. 

Art thou, too, near such doom ? vague fear there is : 

For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods. » 

Divine ye were created, and divine 

In sad demeanor, solemn, undisturbed. 

Unruffled, like high Gods, ye lived and ruled : 

IIn^ow I behold in you fear, hope, and wrath ; 

Actions of rage and passion ; even as 

I see them, on the mortal world beneath, 

In men who die. — This is the grief, son ! 

Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall ! 

Yet do thou strive ; as thou art capable. 

As thou canst move about, an evident God, 

And canst oppose to each malignant hour 

Ethereal presence : — I am but a voice ; 

My life is but the life of winds and tides, — 

No more than winds and tides can I avail : — 

But thou canst. — Be thou therefore in the van 

Of circumstance ; yea, seize the arrow's barb 

Before the tense string murmur. — To the earth ! 

For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his woes. 

Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright sun. 

And of thy seasons be a careful nurse." — 

Ere half this region-whisper had come down 

Hyperion arose, and on the stars 

Lifted his curved lids, and kept them wide 

Until it ceased ; and still he kept them wide : 

And still they Avere the same bright, patient stars.. 

Then with a slow incline of his broad breast^. 

Like to a diver in the pearly seas. 

Forward he stooped over the airy shore, 

And plunged all noiseless into the deep night. 



254 



HYPERION. 



BOOK 11. 

Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings, 

Hyperion slid into the rustled air, 

And Saturn gained with Thea that sad place 

Where Cybele and the bruised Titans mourned. 

It was a den where no insulting light 

Could glimmer on their tears ; where their own groans 

They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar 

Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse, 

Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where. 

Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seemed 

Ever as if just rising from a sleep, 

Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns ; 

And thus in thousand hugest phantasies 

Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe. 

Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon. 

Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge 

Stubborned with iron. All were not assembled : 

Some chained in torture, and some w^andering. 

Coeus, and Gyges, and Briareiis, 

Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion, 

"With many more, the brawniest in assault. 

Were pent in regions of laborious breath ; 

Dungeoned in opaque element to keep 

Their clenched teeth still clenched, and all their limbs 

Locked up like veins of metal, cramped and screwed ; 

Without a motion, save of their big hearts 

Heaving in pain, and horribly convulsed 

With sanguine, feverous, boiling gurge of pulse. 

Mnemosyne was straying in the world ; 



HYPERION. 



255 



Far from her moon had Phoebe wandered ; 

And many else were free to roam abroad, 

But for the main, here found they covert drear. 

Scarce images of life, one here, one there, 

Lay vast and edgeways ; like a dismal cirque 

Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor, 

Wlien the chill rain begins at shut of eve. 

In dull November, and their chancel vault, 

The heaven itself, is blinded throughout night. 

Each one kept shroud, nor to his neighbor gave 

Or word, or look, or action of despair. 

Crelis was one ; his ponderous iron mace 

Lay by him, and a shattered rib of rock 

Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and pined. 

lapetus another ; in his grasp, 

A serpent's plashy neck ; its barbed tongue 

Squeezed from the gorge, and all its uncurled length 

Dead ; and because the creature could not spit 

Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove. 

Next Cottus : prone he lay, chin uppermost, 

As though in pain ; for still upon the flint 

He ground severe his skull, with open mouth 

And eyes at horrid working. Nearest him 

Asia, born of most enormous Caf, 

Who cost her mother Tellus keener pangs, 

Though feminine, than any of her sons : 

More thought than woe was in her dusky face, 

For she was prophesying of her glory ; 

And in her wide imagination stood 

Palm-shaded temples, and high rival fanes. 

By Oxus or in Ganges' sacred isles. 

Even as Hope upon her anchor leans. 

So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk 

Shed from the broadest of her elephants. 



256 



HYPERION. 



Above her, on a crag's uneasy shelve, 

Upon his elbow raised, all prostrate else, 

Shadowed Enceladus ; once tame and mild 

As grazing ox nnworried in the meads ; 

iNow tiger-passioned, lion-thonghted, wroth, 

He meditated, plotted, and even now 

Was hnrling mountains in that second war, 

IS'ot long delayed, that scared the younger Gods 

To hide themselves in forms of beast and bird. 

ITot far hence Atlas ; and beside him prone 

Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neighbored close 

Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap 

Sobbed Clymene among her tangled hair. 

In midst of all lay Themis, at the feet 

Of Ops the queen all clouded round from sight ; 

No shape distinguishable, more than when 

Thick night confounds the pine-tops with the clouds 

And many else whose names may not be told. 

For when the muse's wings are air-ward spread. 

Who shall delay her flight ? And she must chant 

Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had climbed 

With damp and slipj)eiy footing from a depth 

More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff 

Their heads appeared, and up their stature grew 

Till on the level height their steps found ease : 

Then Thea spread abroad her trembling arms 

Upon the precincts of this nest of pain. 

And sidelong fixed her eye on Saturn's face : 

There saw she direst strife ; the supreme God 

At war with all the frailty of grief, 

Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge. 

Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all despair. 

Against these plagues he strove in vain : for Fate 

Had poured a mortal oil upon his head, 



HYPERION. 257 

A disanointing poison : so that Tliea, 
Aff'riglitecl, kept her still, and let him pass 
First onwards in, among the fallen tribe. 

As with us mortal men, the laden heart 
Is persecuted more, and fevered more, 
Wlien it is nighing to the mournful house 
Where other hearts are sick of the same bruise ; 
So Saturn, as he walked into the midst. 
Felt faint, and would have sunk among the rest, 
But that he met Enceladus's eye. 
Whose mightiness, and awe of him, at once 
Came like an inspiration ; and he shouted, 
" Titans, behold your God !" at which some groaned ; 
Some started on their feet ; some also shouted ; 
Some wept, some wailed — all bowed with reverence ; 
And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil, 
Showed her pale cheeks, and all her forehead wan. 
Her eyebrows thin and jet, and hollow eyes. 
There is a roaring in the bleak-grown pines 
Wlien Winter lifts his voice ; there is a noise 
Among immortals when a God gives sign. 
With hushing finger, how he means to load 
His tongue with the full weight of utterless thought. 
With thunder, and with music, and with pomp ; 
Such noise is like the roar of bleak-grown pines ; 
Which, when it ceases in this mountained world, 
1^0 other sound succeeds ; but ceasing here. 
Among these fallen, Saturn's voice therefrom 
Grew up like organ, that begins anew 
Its strain, when other harmonies stopt short, 
Leave the dinned air vibrating silverly. 
Thus grew it up : — " Not in my own sad breast. 
Which is its own great judge and searcher out, 

17 



258 



HYPERION. 



Can I find reason wliy ye should be thus ; 

JN'ot in the legends of the first of days, 

Studied from that old spirit-leaved book 

Wliich starry Uranus with finger bright 

Saved from the shores of darkness, when the waves 

Low-ebbed still hid it up in shallow gloom ; 

And the which book ye kiiow I ever kept 

For my firm-based footstool : — Ah, infirm ! 

^ot there, nor in sign, symbol, or j)ortent 

Of element, earth, water, air, and fire, — 

At war, at peace, or inter-quarrelling 

One against one, or two, or three, or all. 

Each several one against the other three. 

As fire with air loud warring when rain-floods 

Drown both, and press them both against earth's face, 

Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple wrath 

Unhinges the poor world ; — not in that strife, 

Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read it deep, 

Can I find reason why ye should be thus : 

^o, nowhere can unriddle, though I search, 

And pore on ISTature's universal scroll 

Even to swooning, why ye, Divinities, 

The first-born of all shaped and palpable Gods, 

Should cower beneath what, in comparison, 

Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here, 

O'erwhelmed, and spurned, and battered, ye are here ! 

O Titans, shall I say 'Arise !' — Ye groan : 

Shall I say ' Crouch !' — Ye groan. What can I then ? 

Heaven wide ! O unseen parent dear ! 

What can I? Tell me, all ye brethren Gods, 

How we can war, how engine our great wrath ! 

O speak your counsel now, for Saturn's ear 

Is all a-hungered. Thou, Oceanus, 

Ponderest high and deep ; and in thy face 



HYPERION. 259 

I see, astonied, that severe content 

"Wliicli comes of thought and musing: give us help !" 

So ended Saturn ; and the God of the Sea, 
Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove, 
But cogitation in his watery shades, 
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began. 
In murmurs, which his first endeavoring tongue 
Caught infant-like from the far-foamed sands. 
" O ye, whom wrath consumes ! who, passion-stung, 
"Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies ! 
Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears. 
My voice is not a bellows unto ire. 
Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof 
How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop : 
And in the proof much comfort will I give. 
If ye will take that comfort in its truth. 
"We fall by course of Nature's law, not force 
Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, thou 
Hast sifted well the atom-universe ; 
But for this reason, that thou art the King, 
And only blind from sheer supremacy, 
One avenue was shaded from thine eyes. 
Through which I wandered to eternal truth. 
And first, as thou wast not the first of powers, 
So art thou not the last ; it cannot be. 
Thou art not the beginning nor the end. 
From chaos and parental darkness came 
Light, the first fruits of that intestine broil. 
That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends 
"Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour came, 
And with it light, and light engendering 
Upon its own producer, forthwith touched 
The whole enormous matter into life. 



2C0 HYPERION. 

Upon that very hour, our parentage, 

The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest : 

Then thou first-born, and we the giant race. 

Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms. 

Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 'tis pain ; 

O folly ! for to bear all naked truths, 

And to envisage circumstance, all calm, 

That is the top of sovereignty. Mark well ! 

As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far 

Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once chiefs ; 

And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth 

In form and shape compact and beautiful. 

In will, in action free, companionship, 

And thousand other signs of purer life ; 

So on our heels a fresh perfection treads, 

A power more strong in beauty, born of us 

And fated to excel us, as we pass 

In glory that old Darkness : nor are we 

Thereby more conquered than by us the rule 

Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull soil 

Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed. 

And feedeth still, more comely than itself? 

Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves ? 

Or shall the tree be envious of the dove 

Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings 

To wander wherewithal and find its joys ? 

We are such forest trees, and our fair boughs 

Have bred forth, not pale, solitary doves. 

But eagles golden-feathered, who do tower 

Above us in their beauty, and must reign 

In right thereof; for [tis the eternal law 

That first in beauty should be first in might :j 

Yea, by that law, another race may drive 

Our conquerors to mourn as we do now. 



HYPERION. 261 

Have ye beheld the young God of the Seas, 
My dispossessor ? Have ye seen his face ? 
Have ye beheld his chariot foamed along 
By noble winged creatures he hath made ? 
I saw him on the calmed waters scud, 
With such a glow of beauty in his eyes, 
That it enforced me to bid sad farewell 
To all my empire : farewell sad I took, 
And hither came, to see how dolorous fate 
Had wrought upon ye ; and how I might best 
Give consolation in this woe extreme. 
Keceive the truth, and let it be your balm." 

Whether through posed conviction, or disdain, 
They guarded silence, when Oceanus 
Left murmuring, what deepest thought can tell ? 
But so it was, none answered for a space. 
Save one whom none regarded, Clymene : 
And yet she answered not, only complained. 
With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking mild, 
Thus wording timidly among the fierce : 
" Father ! I am here the simplest voice. 
And all my knowledge is that joy is gone. 
And this thing woe crept in among our hearts, 
There to remain for ever, as I fear : 
I would not bode of evil, if I thought 
So weak a creature could turn off the help 
Which by just right should come of mighty Gods ; 
Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell 
Of what I heard, and how it made me weep, 
And know that we had parted from all hope. 
I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore. 
Where a sweet clime was breathed from a land 
Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and flowers. 



262 



HYPEKION. 



Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief ; 
Too full of joy and soft delicious warmtli; 
So that I felt a movement in my heart 
To chide, and to reproach that solitude 
With songs of misery, music of our woes ; 
And sat me down, and took a mouthed shell 
And murmured into it, and made melody — 

melody no more ! for while I sang. 
And with poor skill let pass into the breeze 
The dull shell's echo, from a bowery strand 
Just opposite, an island of the sea, 

There came enchantment with the shifting wind 
That did both drown and keep alive my ears. 

1 threw my shell away upon the sand. 
And a wave filled it, as my sense was filled 
With that new blissful golden melody. 

A living death was in each gush of sounds, 

Each family of rapturous hurried notes, 

That fell, one after one, yet all at once, 

Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string : 

And then another, then another strain, 

Each like a dove leaving its olive perch. 

With music winged instead of silent plumes. 

To hover round my head, and make me sick 

Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame. 

And I was stopping up my frantic ears. 

When, past all hindrance of my trembling hands, 

A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune. 

And still it cried, ' Apollo ! young Apollo ! 

The morning-bright Apollo ! young Apollo !' 

I fled, it followed me, and cried 'Apollo !' 

O Father, and O Brethren ! had ye felt 

These pains of mine ! O Saturn, hadst thou felt. 

Ye would not call this too-indulged tongue 

Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be heard !" 



HYPERION. 

So far her voice flowed on, like timorous brook 
That, Ungeriiig along a pebbled coast, 
Doth fear to meet the sea : but sea it met, 
And shuddered ; for the overwhelming voice 
Of huge Enceladus swallowed it in wrath : 
The ponderous syllables, like sullen waves 
In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rocks. 
Came booming thus, while still upon his arm 
He leaned ; not rising, from supreme contempt. 
" Or shall we listen to the over-wise. 
Or to the over-foolish giant, Gods ? 
Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all 
That rebel Jove's whole armory were spent, 
Not world on world upon these shoulders piled, 
Could agonize me more than baby-words 
In midst of this dethronement horrible. 
Speak ! roar ! shout ! yell ! ye sleepy Titans all. 
Do ye forget the blows, the buftets vile ? 
Are ye not smitten by a youngliug arm ? 
Dost thou forget, sham Monarch of the Waves, 
Thy scalding in the seas ? What ! have I roused 
Your spleens with so few simple words as these ? 
joy ! for now I see ye are not lost : 
joy ! for now I see a thousand eyes 
Wide glaring for revenge." — As this he said, 
He lifted up his stature vast, and stood. 
Still without intermission speaking thus : 
" Now ye are flames, I'll tell you how to burn. 
And purge the ether of our enemies ; 
How to feed fierce the crooked stings of fire. 
And singe away the swollen clouds of Jove, 
Stifling that puny essence in its tent. 
O let him feel the evil he hath done ; 
For though I scorn Oceanus's lore. 



2Gg 



2G4 



H Y P E R 1 N. 



Mucli pain have I for more than loss of realms : 
The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled ; 
Those days, all innocent of scathing war, 
When all the fair Existences of heaven 
Came open-eyed to guess what we would speak : — 
That was before our brows were taught to frown. 
Before our lips knew else but solemn sounds ; 
That was before we knew the winged thing, 
Victory, might be lost, or might be won. 
And be ye mindful that Hyperion, 
Our brightest brother, still is undisgraced — 
Hyperion, lo ! his radiance is here !" 

All eyes were on Enceladus's face. 
And they beheld, while still Hyperion's name 
Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks, 
A pallid gleam across his features stern : 
JSTot savage, for he saw full many a God 
Wroth as himself. He looked upon them all, 
And in each face he saw a gleam of light. 
But splendider in Saturn's, whose hoar locks 
Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel 
When the prow sweeps into a midnight cove. 
In pale and silver silence they remained. 
Till suddenly a splendor, like the morn. 
Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps. 
All the sad spaces of oblivion. 
And every gulf, and every chasm old. 
And every height, and every sullen depth. 
Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented streams : 
And all the everlasting cataracts. 
And all the headlong torrents far and near, 
Mantled before in darkness and huge shade, 
Now saw the light and made it terrible. 



HYPERION. 



265 



It was Hyperion : — a granite peak 

His bright feet touclied, and there he stayed to view 

The misery his brilliance had betrayed 

To the most hateful seeing of itself. 

Golden his hair of short ]!^umidian curl, 

Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade 

In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk 

Of Memnon's image at the set of sun 

To one who travels from the dusking East: 

Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon's harp, 

He uttered, while his hands, contemplative'. 

He pressed together, and in silence stood. 

Despondence seized again the fallen Gods 

At sight of the dejected King of Day, 

And many hid their faces from the light : 

But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes 

Among the brotherhood ; and, at their glare, 

Uprose lapetus, and Creiis too, 

And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode 

To where he towered on his eminence. 

There these four shouted forth old Saturn's name ; 

Hyperion from the peak loud answered " Saturn !" 

Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods, 

In whose face was no joy, though all the Gods 

Gave from their hollow throats the name of " Saturn !' 



BOOK III. 

Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace. 
Amazed were those Titans utterly. 
O leave them, Muse ! leave them to their woes ! 
For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire : 



266 HYPERION. 

A solitary sorrow best befits 

Thy lips, and antlieming a lonely grief. 

Leave them, O Muse ! for thou anon wilt find 

Many a fallen old Divinity 

Wandering in vain about bewildered shores. 

^leantime touch piously the Delphic harp, 

And not a wind of heaven but will breathe 

In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute ; 

For lo ! 'tis for the Father of all verse. 

Flush everything that hath a vermeil hue, 

Let the rose glow intense and warm the air. 

And let the clouds of even and of morn 

Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills ; 

Let the red wine within the goblet boil, 

Cold as a bubbling well ; let faint-lipped shells, 

On sands or in great deeps, vermilion turn 

Through all their labyrinths ; and let the maid 

Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surprised. 

Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades, 

Rejoice, Delos, with thine olives green. 

And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech, 

In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song, 

And hazels thick, dark-stemmed beneath the shade 

Apollo is once more the golden theme ! 

Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun 

Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers ? 

Toofether had he left his mother fair 

And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower. 

And in the morning twilight wandered forth 

Beside the osiers of a rivulet. 

Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale. 

The nightingale had ceased, and a few stars 

Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush 

Began cahii-throated. Throughout all the isle 



HYPERION. ^67 

There was no covert, no retired cave 

Unliaunted by tlie murmurous noise of waves, 

Though scarcely heard in many a green recess. 

He Ustened, and he wept, and his bright tears 

"Went trickling down the golden bow he held. 

Thus with half-shut sufl'used eyes he stood, 

While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by 

"With solemn step an awful Goddess came, 

And there was purport in her looks for him, 

Which he with eager guess began to read 

Perplexed, the while melodiously he said ? 

"How camest thou over the unfooted sea ? 

Or hath that antique mien and robed form 

Moved in these vales invisible till now ? 

Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er 

The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone 

In cool mid forest. Surely I have traced 

The rustle of those ample skirts about 

These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers 

Lift up their heads, as still the whisper passed. 

Goddess ! I have beheld those eyes before. 

And their eternal calm, and all that face. 

Or I have dreamed." — "Yes," said the supreme shape, 

" Thou hast dreamed of me ; and awaking up 

Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side. 

Whose strings touched by thy fingers, all the vast 

Unwearied ear of the whole universe 

Listened in pain and pleasure at the birth 

Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not strange 

That thou shouldst weep, so gifted ? Tell me, youth, 

What sorrow thou canst feel ; for I am sad 

Wlien thou dost shed a tear : explain thy griefs 

To one who in this lonely isle hath been 

The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life, 



268 HYPERION. 

From the young day when first thy infant hand 

Plucked witless the weak flowers, till thine arm 

Could bend that bow heroic to all times. 

Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power 

Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones 

For prophecies of thee, and for the sake 

Of loveliness new-born." — Apollo then, 

With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes, 

Thus answered, while his white melodious throat 

Throbbed with the syllables : — " Mnemosyne ! 

Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how ; 

Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest ? 

Why should I strive to show what from thy lips 

Would come no mystery ? For me, dark, dark, 

And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes : 

I strive to search wherefore I am so sad. 

Until a melancholy numbs my limbs ; 

And then upon the grass I sit, and moan. 

Like one who once had wings. — why should I 

Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liegeless air 

Yields to my step aspirant ? why should I 

Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet ? 

Goddess benign ! point forth some unknown thing : 

Are there not other regions than this isle ? 

What are the stars ? There is the sun, the sun ! 

And the most patient brilliance of the moon ! 

And stars by thousands ! Point me out the way 

To any one particular beauteous star. 

And I will flit into it with my lyre, 

And make its silvery splendor pant with bliss. 

I have heard the cloudy thunder : Where is power ? 

Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity 

Makes this alarum in the elements. 

While I here idle listen on the shores 



HYPERION. 269 

In fearless yet in aching ignorance ? 

tell me, lonely Goddess ! by thy harp, 

That waileth every morn and eventide. 

Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves ! 

Mute thou remainest — Mute ? yet I can read 

A wondrous lesson in thy silent face : 

Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. 

Kames, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, 

Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, 

Creations and destroyings, all at once 

Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, 

And deify me, as if some blithe wine 

Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk. 

And so become immortal." — Thus the God, 

While his enkindled eyes, with level glance 

Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast kept 

Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne. 

Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush 

All the immortal fairness of his limbs : 

Most like the struggle at the gate of death ; 

Or liker still to one who should take leave 

Of pale immortal death, and with a pang 

As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse 

Die into life : so young Apollo anguished ; 

His very hair, his golden tresses famed 

Kept undulation round his eager neck. 

During the pain Mnemosyne upheld 

Her arms as one who prophesied. — At length 

Apollo shrieked ; — and lo ! from all his limbs 

Celestial * * * * 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Wliat more felicity can fall to creature 
Than to enjoy delight with liberty. 

Fate of the Butterfly.— Spe^^sz^. 



DEDICATION. 



TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. 

Glory and loveliness have passed away ; 

For if we wander out in early morn, 

No wreathed incense do we see upborne 
Into the east to meet the smiling day : 
No crowds of nymphs soft-voiced and young and gay, 

In woven baskets bringing ears of corn, 

Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn 
The shrine of Flora in her early May. 
But there are left delights as high as these. 

And I shall ever bless my destiny, 
That in a time when under jileasant trees 

Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free, 
A leafy luxury, seeing I could please 

With these poor offerings, a man like thee. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Places of nestling green for poets made. 

Story of Rimini. 

I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, 
The air was cooling, and so very still, 
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside. 
Their scanty-leaved, and finely-tapering stems, 
Had not yet lost their starry diadems 
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn. 
And fresh from the clear brook ; sweetly they slept 
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept 
A little noiseless noise amono^ the leaves. 
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves ; 
For not the faintest motion could be seen 
Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. 
There was wide wandering for the greediest eye, 
To peer about upon variety ; 
Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim. 
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ; 
To picture out the quaint and curious bending 
Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending : 
Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves. 
Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. 
I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free 
As though the fanning wings of Mercury 
Had played upon my heels : I was light-hearted. 
And many pleasures to my vision started ; 

18 



274 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



So I straightway began to pluck a posy 

Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy. 

A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them ; 

Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them ! 

And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, 

And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them 

Moist, cool, and green ; and shade the violets, 

That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 

A filbert-hedge with wild-brier overtwined. 
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind 
Upon their summer thrones ; there too should be 
The frequent-chequer of a youngling tree, 
That with a score of light green brethren shoots 
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots : 
Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters, 
Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters, 
The spreading blue-bells : it may haply mourn 
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn 
Ffbm their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly 
By infant hands, left on the path to die. 

Open afresh your round of starry folds, 
Ye ardent marigolds ! 

Dry up the moisture from your golden lids. 
For great Apollo bids 

That in these days your praises should be sung 
On many harjDs, which he has lately strung ; 
And when again your dewiness he kisses. 
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : 
So haply when I rove in some far vale. 
His mighty voice may come upon the gale. 

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight : 
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 276 

And taper fingers catching at all things, 
To hind them all ahout with tiny rings. 
Linger awhile upon some hending planks 
That lean against a streamlet's rushy hanks, 
And watch intently Nature's gentle doings : 
They will he found softer than ringdoves' cooings. 
How silent comes the water round that hend ! 
Not the minutest whisper does it send 
To the o'erhanging sallows : hlades of grass 
Slowly across the chequered shadows pass. 
Why you might read two sonnets, ere they reach 
To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach 
A natural sermon o'er their pehbly beds ; 
Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, 
Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, 
To taste the luxury of sunny beams 
Tempered with coolness. How they ever wrestle 
With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle 
Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand ! 
If you but scantily hold out the hand, 
That very instant not one will remain ; 
But turn your eye, and they are there again. 
The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses. 
And cool themselves among the emerald tresses ; 
The while they cool themselves, they freshness give. 
And moisture, that the bowery green may live : 
So keeping up an interchange of favors, 
Like good men in the truth of their behaviors. 
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop 
From low-hung branches : little space they stop ; 
But sip and twitter, and their feathers sleek ; 
Then off" at once, as in a wanton freak: 
- Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings. 
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. 



276 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Were I in such a place, I sure should pray 

That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away, 

Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown 

Fanning away the dandelion's down ; 

Than the light music of her nimble toes 

Patting against the sorrel as she goes. 

How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught 

Playing in all her innocence of thought ! 

let me lead her gently o'er the brook. 

Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look ; 

O let me for one moment touch her wrist : 

Let me one moment to her breathing list ; 

And as she leaves me, may she often turn 

Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne. 

Wliat next ? a tuft of evening primroses. 

O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; 

O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, 

But that 'tis ever startled by the leap 

Of buds into ripe flowers : or by the flitting 

Of divers moths, that aye their rest are quitting ; 

Or by the moon lifting her silver rim 

Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim 

Coming into the blue with all her light. 

Maker of sweet poets ! dear delight 

Of this fair world and all its gentle livers ; 

Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, 

Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams, 

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, 

Lover of loneliness, and wandering. 

Of upcast eye, and tender pondering ! 

Thee must I praise above all other glories 

That smile us on to tell delightful stories. 

For what has made the sage or poet write 

But the fair paradise of Nature's light ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 27^ 

111 the calm grandeur of a sober line, 

We see the waving of the mountain pine ; 

And when a table is beautifully staid, 

AVe feel the safety of a hawthorn glade : 

"Wlien it is moving on luxurious wings, 

The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings : 

Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, 

And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases ; 

O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet-brier 

And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire ; 

Wliile at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles 

Charms us at once away from all our troubles : 

So that we feel uplifted from the world. 

Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and curled. 

So felt he, who first told how Psyche went 

On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment ; 

What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips 

First touched ; what amorous and fondling nips 

They gave each other's cheeks ; with all their sighs, 

And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes : 

The silver lamp, — the ravishment — the wonder — 

The darkness — loneliness — the fearful thunder ; 

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven up flown, 

To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. 

So did he feel who pulled the boughs aside, 

That we might look into a forest wide. 

To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades 

Coming with softest rustle through the trees ; 

And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet, 

Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet : 

Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled 

Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. 

Poor IS'ymph, — poor Pan, — how did he weep to find 

Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind 



8 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Along tlie reedy stream ! a half-heard strain, 
Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain. 

What first inspired a bard of old to sing 
IN'arcissus pining o'er the untainted spring ? 
In some delicious ramble, he had found 
A little space, with boughs all woven round ; 
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool 
Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool 
The blue sky, here and there serenely peeping, 
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. 
And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, 
A meek and forlorn flower, with nought of pride, 
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness 
To woo its own sad image into nearness : 
Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move ; 
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. 
So while the poet stood in this sweet spot, 
Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot; 
Kor was it long ere he had told the tale 
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale. 

Where he had been, from whose warm head outflew 
That sweetest of all songs, that ever new. 
That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, 
Coming ever to bless 

The wanderer by moonlight ? to him bringing 
Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing 
From out the middle air, from flowery nests, 
And from the pillowy silkiness that rests 
Full in the speculation of the stars. 
Ah ! surely he had burst our mortal bars ; 
Into some wondrous region he had gone, 
To search for thee, divine Endymion ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 279 

He was a Poet, sure a lover too, 
Wlio stood on Latnius' top, what time there blew 
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below ; 
And brought, in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow, 
A hymn from Dian's temple ; while upswelling, 
The incense went to her own starry dwelling. 
But though her face was clear as infants' eyes, 
Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice. 
The poet wept at her so piteous fate, 
"Wept that such beauty should be desolate : 
So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, 
And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. 

Queen of the wide air ; thou most lovely queen 
Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen ! 
As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, 
So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. 
for three words of honey, that I might 
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night ! 

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, 
Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels, 
And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes, 
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. 
The evening weather was so bright, and clear. 
That men of health were of unusual cheer ; 
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call. 
Or young Apollo on the pedestal : 
And lovely women were as fair and warm, 
As Venus looking sideways in alarm. 
The breezes were ethereal, and pure. 
And crept through half-closed lattices to cure 
Tlie languid sick : it cooled their fevered sleep, 
And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. 



280 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Soon tliey awoke clear-eyed : nor burned witli thirsting, 
Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting : 
And springing up, they met the wondering sight 
Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight ; 
Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss, and stare, 
And on their placid foreheads part the hair. 
Young men and maidens at each other gazed, 
"With hands held back, and motionless, amazed 
To see the brightness in each other's eyes ; 
And so they stood, filled with a sweet surprise, 
Until their tongues were loosed in poesy. 
Therefore no lover did of anguish die : 
But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, 
Made silken ties, that never may be broken. 
Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater blisses 
That followed thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses : 
Was there a poet born ? — But now no more — 
My wandering spirit must no farther soar. 



SPECIMEN OF AN" IFDrCTION TO A POEM. 

Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 

For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye. 

Not like the formal crest of latter days : 

But bending in a thousand graceful ways ; 

So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, 

Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand, 

Could charm them into such an attitude. 

We must think rather, that in playful mood. 

Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight 

To show this wonder of its gentle might. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



281 



Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 

For while I muse, the lance points slantingly 

Athwart the morning air : some lady sweet, 

Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet, 

From the worn top of some old hattlement 

Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent ; 

And from her own pure self no joy dissembling, 

Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling. 

Sometimes when the good knight his rest could take, 

It is reflected, clearly, in a lake. 

With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests. 

And th' half-seen mossiness of linnets' nests. 

Ah ! shall I ever tell its cruelty, 

A\nien the fire flashes from a warrior's eye, 

And his tremendous hand is grasping it. 

And his dark brow for very wrath is knit ? 

Or when his spirit, with more calm intent 

Leaps to the honors of a tournament. 

And makes the gazers round about the ring 

Stare at the grandeur of the balancing ? 

Ko, no ! this is far oflT: — then how shall I 

Eevive the dying tones of minstrelsy, 

Wliich linger yet about long Gothic arches. 

In dark green ivy, and among wild larches ? 

How sing the splendor of the revelries. 

When butts of wine are drank off" to the lees ? 

And that bright lance, against the fretted wall, 

Beneath the shade of stately banneral. 

Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield ? 

Where ye may see a spur in bloody field, 

Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces 

Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces ; 

Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens : 

Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens. 



282 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Yet I must tell a tale of chivalry : 

Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by ? 

AVherefore more proudly does the gentle knight 

Eein in the swelling of his ample might ? 

Spenser ! thy brows are arched, open, kind, 

And come like a clear sunrise to my mind ; 

And always does my heart with pleasure dance, 

Wlien I think on thy noble countenance : 

TVHiere never yet was aught more earthly seen 

Thau the pure freshness of thy laurels green. 

Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully 

Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh 

My daring steps : or if thy tender care, 

Thus startled unaware, 

Be jealous that the foot of other wight 

Should madly follow that bright path of light 

Traced by thy loved Libertas ; he will speak. 

And tell thee that my prayer is very meek ; 

That I will follow with due reverence. 

And start with awe at mine own strange pretence. 

Him thou wilt hear ; so I will rest in hope 

To see wide plains, fair trees, and lawny slope ; 

The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers ; 

Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers. 



CALIDORE. 



A FRAGMENT. 



Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake ; 

His healthful spirit eager and awake 

To feel the beauty of a silent eve, 

AVhich seemed full loth this happy world to leave, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 283 

The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly. 

He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, 

And smiles at the far clearness all around, 

Until his heart is well-nigh overwound. 

And turns for calmness to the pleasant green 

Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean 

So elegantly o'er the waters' brim 

And show their blossoms trim. 

Scarce can his clear and nimble eyesight follow 

The freaks and dartings of the black-winged swallow, 

Delighting much, to see it half at rest. 

Dip so refreshingly its wings and breast 

'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, 

The widening circles into nothing gone. 

And now the sharp keel of his little boat 
Comes up with ripple, and with easy float 
And glides into a bed of water-lilies : 
Broad-leaved are they, and their white canopies 
Are upward turned to catch the heavens' dew. 
Near to a little island's point they grew ; 
Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view 
Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore 
Went oif in gentle windings to the hoar 
And light blue mountains : but no breathing man 
With a warm heart, and eye prepared to scan 
Nature's clear beauty, could pass lightly by 
Objects that looked out so invitingly 
On either side. These, gentle Calidore 
Greeted, as he had known them long before. 

The sidelong view of swelling leafiness. 
Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress, 
Whence, ever and anon, the joy outsprings. 
And scales upon the beauty of its wings. 



284 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The lonely turret, shattered, and outworn, 
Stands venerably proud ; too proud to mourn 
Its long-lost grandeur : fir-trees grow around. 
Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground. 
The little chapel, with the cross above. 
Upholding wreaths of ivy ; the white dove, 
That on the windows spreads his feathers light, 
And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight. 

Green tufted islands casting their soft shades 
Across the lake ; sequestered leafy glades. 
That through the dimness of their twilight show 
Large dock-leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow 
Of the wild cat's-eyes, or the silvery stems 
Of delicate birch-trees, or long grass which hems 
A little brook. The youth had long been viewing 
These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing 
The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught 
A trumpet's silver voice. Ah ! it was fraught 
With many joys for him : the warder's ken 
'Had found white coursers prancing in the glen : 
Friends very dear to him he soon will see ; 
So pushes oft' his boat most eagerly. 
And soon upon the lake he skims along. 
Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song ; 
Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly : 
His spirit flies before him so completely. 
And now he turns a jutting point of land, 
Whence may be seen the castle gloomy and grand : 
Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches, 
Before the point of his light shallop reaches 
Those marble steps that through the water dip : 
Now over them he goes with hasty trip. 
And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors : 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 285 

Anon lie leaps along the oaken floors 
Of halls and corridors. 

Delicious sounds ! those little bright-eyed things 
That float about the air on azure wings, 
Had been less heartfelt by him than the clang 
Of clattering hoofs ; into the court he sprang, 
Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain. 
Were slanting out their necks with loosened rein ; 
Wliile from beneath the threatening portcullis 
They brought their happy burdens. What a kiss, 
What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand ! 
How tremblingly their delicate ankles spanned ! 
Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone. 
While whisperings of affection 
Made him delay to let their tender feet 
Come to the earth ; with an incline so sweet 
From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent : 
And whether there were tears of languishment, 
Or that the evening dew had pearled their tresses, 
He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses 
With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye, 
All the soft luxury 

That nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand. 
Fair as some wonder out of fairy land, 
Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers 
Of whitest Cassia, fresh from summer showers : 
And this he fondled with his happy cheek. 
As if for joy he would no further seek : 
When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond 
Came to his ear, like something from beyond 
His present being : so he gently drew 
His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new, 
From their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending, 
Thanked Heaven that his joy was never-ending ; 



236 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

"While 'gainst liis forehead, he devoutly pressed 
A hand Heaven made to succor the distressed ; 
A hand that from the world's bleak promontory 
Had lifted Calidore for deeds of glory. 

Amid the pages, and the torches' glare, 
There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair 
Of his proud horse's mane : he was withal 
A man of elegance, and stature tall : 
So that the waving of his plumes would be 
High as the berries of a wild ash tree, 
Or as the winged cap of Mercury. 
His armor was so dexterously wrought 
In shape, that sure no living man had thought 
It hard and heavy steel : but that indeed 
It was some glorious form, some splendid weed, 
In which a spirit new come from the skies 
Might live, and show itself to human eyes. 
'Tis the far-famed, the brave Sir Gondibert, 
Said the good man to Calidore alert ; 
While the young warrior with a step of grace 
Came up, — a courtly smile upon his face. 
And mailed hand held out, ready to greet 
The large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heat 
Of the aspiring boy ; who as he led 
Those smiling ladies, often turned his head 
To admire the visor arched so gracefully 
Over a knightly brow ; while they went by 
The lamps that from the high-roofed hall were pen- 
dent. 
And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent. 

Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated, 
The sweet-lipped ladies have already greeted 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 287 

All tlie green leaves. that round the window clamber, 

To show their purple stars and bells of amber. 

Sir Gondibert has doffed his shining steel, 

Gladdening in the free and airy feel 

Of a light mantle ; and while Clerimond 

Is looking round about him with a fond 

And placid eye, young Calidore is burning 

To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning 

Of all unworthiness ; and how the strong of arm 

Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm 

From lovely w^oman : while brimful of this. 

He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss. 

And had such manly ardor in his eye, 

That each at other looked half-staringly : 

And then their features started into smiles. 

Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles. 

Softly the breezes from the forest came, 

Softly they blew aside the taper's flame ; 

Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower ; 

Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower ; 

Mysterious, wild, the far-heard trumpet's tone ; 

Lovely the moon in ether, all alone : 

Sweet, too, the converse of these happy mortals, 

As that of busy spirits when the portals 

Are closing in the West ; or that soft humming 

We hear around when Hesperus is coming. 

Sweet be their sleep. ****** 



288 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

TO SOME LADIES, 

ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL. 

What tliougli, while the wonders of nattrre exploring, 
I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend ; 

Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring. 
Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend : 

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain-stream rushes, 
With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove ; 

Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its j)assionate gushes, 
Its spray, that the wild-flower kindly bedews. 

Why linger ye so, the wild labyrinth strolling ? 

Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare ? 
Ah ! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling, 

Responsive to sylphs, in the moonbeamy air. 

'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping, 
I see you are treading the verge of the sea : 

And now ! ah, I see it — you just now are stooping 
To pick up the keepsake intended for me. 

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending. 

Had brought me a gem from the fretwork of heaven ; 

And smiles with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending, 
The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given ; 

It had not created a warmer emotion 

Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blessed with from 
you ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 289 

Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the 
ocean, 
Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw. 

For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure 
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds), 

To possess but a span of the hour of leisure 
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds. 



ON EECEIVING A COPY OF VERSES FROM 
THE SAME LADIES. 

Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem. 
Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain ? 

Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, 

"Wlien it flutters in sunbeams that shine through a 
fountain ? 

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine ? 

That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold ? 
And splendidly marked with the story divine 

Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold ? 

Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing ? 

Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is ? 
Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing? 

And wear'st thou the shield of the famed Britomartis ? 

"What is it that hangs from thy shoulder so brave, 
Embroidered with many a spring-peering flower ? 

Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave ? 

And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower ? 

19 



290 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



All ! courteous Sir Kniglit, with large joy thou art 
crowned ; 

Full mauy the glories that brighten thy youth ! 
I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound 

In magical powers to bless and to soothe. 

On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair 
A sun-beaming tale of a wreath, and a chain : 

And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare 

Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain. 

This canopy mark : 'tis the work of a fay ; 

Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish, 
When lovely Titania was far, far away, 

And cruelly left him to sorrow and anguish. 

There, oft would he bring from his soft-sighing lute 
Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales 
listened ! 

The wondering spirits of heaven were mute, 
And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened. 

In this little dome, all those melodies strange, 
Soft, plaintive, and melting, forever will sigh ; 

Kor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change, 
'Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. 

So when I am in a voluptuous vein, 

I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose. 

And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain, 
Till its echoes depart ; then I sink to repose. 

Adieu ! valiant Eric ! with joy thou art crowned, 
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth ; 

I too have my blisses, which richly abound 
In magical powers to bless, and to soothe. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ^91 



TO 



Hadst tlioii lived in days of old, 

O what wonders had been told 

Of thy lively countenance, 

And thy humid eyes, that dance 

In the midst of their own brightness. 

In the very fane of lightness ; 

Over which thine eyebrows, leaning. 

Picture out each lovely meaning : 

In a dainty bend they lie, 

Like the streaks across the sky, 

Or the feathers from a crow 

Fallen on a bed of snow. 

Of thy dark hair, that extends 

Into many graceful bends : 

As the leaves of hellebore 

Turn to whence they sprung before. 

And behind each ample curl 

Peeps the richness of a pearl. 

Downward too flows many a tress 

With a glossy waviness. 

Full, and rovmd like globes that rise 

From the censer to the skies 

Through sunny hair. Add too, the sweetness 

Of thy honeyed voice ; the neatness 

Of thine ankle lightly turned : 

"With those beauties scarce discerned, 

Kept with such sweet privacy. 

That they seldom meet the eye 

Of the little Loves that fly 

Round about with eager pry. 



292 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Saving when with freshening lave, 

Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave ; 

Like twin water-lilies, born 

In the coolness of the morn. 

O, if thou hadst breathed then, 

N^ow the Muses had been ten. 

Couldst thou Avish for lineage higher 

Than twin-sister of Thalia ? 

At least forever, evermore 

Will I call the Graces four. 

Hadst thou lived when chivalry 

Lifted up her lance on high. 

Tell me what thou wouldst have been ? 

Ah ! I see the silver sheen 

Of thy broidered-floating vest 

Covering half thine ivory breast : 

"Which, O Heavens ! I should see. 

But that cruel Destiny 

Has placed a golden cuirass there, 

Keeping secret what is fair. 

Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested. 

Thy locks in knightly casque are rested : 

O'er which bend four milky plumes, 

Like the gentle lily's blooms 

Springing from a costly vase. 

See with what a stately pace 

Comes thine alabaster steed ; 

Servant of heroic deed ! 

O'er his loins, his trappings glow 

Like the northern lights on snow. 

Mount his back ! thy sword unsheath ! 

Sign of the enchanter's death ; 

Band of every wicked spell ; 

Silencer of dragon's yell. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Alas ! thou this wilt never do : 
Thou art an enchantress too, 
And wilt surely never spill 
Blood of those whose eyes can kill. 



293 



TO HOPE. 



When by my solitary hearth I sit, 

And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom ; 
"When no fair dreams before my " mind's eye" flit, 
, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom ; 
Sweet Hope ! ethereal balm upon me shed. 
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. 

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night, 

Wliere woven boughs shut out the moon's bright 

ray, 
Should sad Despondency my musings fright. 

And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away. 
Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof, 
And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof. 

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, 
Strive for her son to seize my careless heart 

When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air, 
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart : 

Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright. 

And fright him, as the morning frightens night 

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear 
Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow, 



294 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



briglit-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer ; 

Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow 
Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed, 
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head ! 

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain, 
From cruel parents, or relentless fair, 

let me think it is not quite in vain 
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air ! 

Sweet Hope ! ethereal balm upon me shed, 

And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. 

In the long vista of the years to roll. 

Let me not see our country's honor fade ! 

let me see our land retain her soul ! 

Her pride, her freedom ; and not freedom's shade. 

From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed — 

Beneath thy pinions canopy my head ! 

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest, 
Great liberty ! how great in plain attire ! 

With the base purple of a court oppressed. 
Bowing her head, and ready to expire : 

But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings 
That fill the skies with silver glitterings ! 

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star 

Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud ; 
Brightening the half-veiled face of heaven afar: 

So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud. 
Sweet Hope ! celestial influence round me shed, 
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head. 

February, 1815. 





??9./?tj'u;>'y /^^m- ,A^A'- / '//^z-m-p-£^t'\./h^n.c 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 295 



IMITATION OF SPEis'SEE. 

***** 
Now Morning from her orient chamber came 
And her first footsteps touched a verdant hill ; 
Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, 
Silvering the untainted gushes of its rill ; 
Which, x^ure from mossy beds, did down distil, 
And after parting beds of simple flowers. 
By many streams a little lake did fill, 
AVhich round its marge reflected woven bowers. 
And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers. 

There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright. 
Vying with fish of brilliant dye below ; 
Whose silken fins' and golden scales' light 
Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow : 
There saw the swan his neck of arched snow, 
And oared himself along with majesty : 
Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show 
Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony. 
And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously. 

Ah ! could I tell the wonders of an isle 
That in that fairest lake had placed been, 
I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile ; 
Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen : 
For sure so fair a place was never seen 
Of all that ever charmed romantic eye : 
It seemed an emerald in the silver sheen 
Of the bright waters ; or as when on high, 
Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the ccerulean sky. 



296 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And all around it dipped luxuriously 
Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide, 
Which, as it were in gentle amity, 
Rippled delighted up the flowery side ; 
As if to glean the ruddy tears it tried. 
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem ! 
Haply it was the workings of its pride. 
In strife to throw upon the shore a gem 
Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem. 



Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain. 

Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies ; 

Without that modest softening that enhances 
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain 
That its mild light creates to heal again ; 

E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps and prances, 

E'en then my soul with exultation dances 
For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain : 
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender, 

Heavens ! how desperately do I adore 
Thy winning graces ; — to be thy defender 

I hotly burn — to be a Calidore — 
A very Red Cross Knight — a stout Leander — 

Might I be loved by thee like those of yore. 

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair ; 

Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast ; 

Are things on which the dazzled senses rest 
Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare. 
From such fine pictures, Heavens ! I cannot dare 

To turn my admiration, though unpossessed 

They be of what is worthy, — though not drest, 
In lovely modesty, and virtues rare. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 297 

Yet these I leave as tlioiiglitless as a lark ; 

These lures I straight forget, — e'en ere I dine, 
Or thrice my palate moisten : but when I mark 

Such charms with mild intelligences shine, 
My ear is open like a greedy shark, 

To catch the tunings of a voice divine. 

Ah ! who can e'er forget so fair a being ? 

Who can forget her half-retiring sweets ? 

God ! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats 
For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing, 
Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing. 

Will never give him pinions, who entreats 

Such innocence to ruin, — who vilely cheats 
A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing 
One's thoughts from such a beauty ; when I hear 

A lay that once I saw her hand awake, 
Her form seems floating palpable, and near; 

Had I e'er seen her from an arbor take 
A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, 

And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 



298 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth. 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth ! 
for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hij)pocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. 
And purple-stained mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs. 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 

ITot charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night. 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne. 
Clustered around by all her starry fays ; 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
ways. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



299 



I cannot see wliat flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense liangs upon tlie bonglis 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewj wine. 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 

Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme. 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
IsTow more than ever seems it rich to die. 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 



300 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is" famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy jDlaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hillside ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 

Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ? 



ODE OK A GRECIAN URK 

Thou still unravished bride of quietness ! 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 

Of deities or mortals, or of both. 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 

What men or gods are these ? what maidens loath ? 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 

What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy ? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared. 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve ; 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss. 

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 301 

All, happy, tappy boughs ! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

Forever piping songs forever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 

Forever warm and still to be enjoyed, 
Forever panting and forever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above. 

That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? 
Wliat little town by river or sea-shore. 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. 
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

"Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 

Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity : cold Pastoral ! 

Wlien old age shall this generation waste. 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 



302 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ODE TO PSYCHE. 

Goddess ! liear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, 

And pardon that thy secrets shoukl be sung, 
Even into thine own soft-conched ear : 

Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 

The winged Psyche with awakened eyes ? 

1 wandered in a forest thoughtlessly. 

And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, 
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side 

In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof 

Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 
A brooklet, scarce espied : 
'Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed, 

Blue, silver- white, and budded Tyrian, 
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass ; 

Their arms embraced, and their pinions too ; 

Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu, 
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber. 
And ready still past kisses to outnumber 

At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love : 
The winged boy I knew ; 

But who wast thou, happy, haj)py dove ? 
His Psyche true ! 

O latest-born and loveliest vision far 

Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy ! 
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-regioned star. 

Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky ; 

Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, 

i^or altar heaped with flowers ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 303 

j^or Virgin-clioir to make delicious moan 

Upon tlie midniglit hours ; 
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 

From chain-swung censer teeming ; 
'No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 

Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. 

brightest ! though too late for antique vows, 
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, 

When holy were the haunted forest boughs. 
Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; 

Yet even in these days so far retired 
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans. 
Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 

1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 

So let me be thy choir, and make a moan 
Upon the midnight hours ! 
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet 

From swinged censer teeming : 
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat 

Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. 

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 

In some untrodden region of my mind, 
Where branched thoughts, new-grown with pleasant 
pain, 

Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind : 
Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees 

Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep ; 
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, 

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep ; 
And in the midst of this wide quietness 
A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
With the wreathed trellis of a working brain, 

With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, 



304 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

"With all tlie gardener Fancy e'er could feign, 

Who breeding iiowers, will never breed the same 
And there shall be for thee all soft delight 

That shadowy thought can win, 
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, 

To let the warm Love in ! 



fa:n^cy. 

Ever let the Fancy roam. 

Pleasure never is at home : 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thought still spread beyond her 

Open wide the mind's cage door. 

She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 

O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 

Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 

And the enjoying of the Spring 

Fades as does its blossoming : 

Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too. 

Blushing through the mist and dew, 

Cloys with tasting : what do then ? 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear fagot blazes bright, 

Spirit of a winter's night ; 

"When the soundless earth is muffled 

And the caked snow is shuffled 

From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;- 

When the Night doth meet the Noon 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 305 

In a dark conspiracy 

To l)anisli Even from her sky. 

Sit tliee there, and send abroad, 

With a mind self-overawed, 

Fancy, high-commissioned : — send her ! 

She has vassals to attend her : 

She will bring, in spite of frost, 

Beanties that the earth hath lost ; 

She will bring thee, all together, 

All delio-hts of summer weather ; 

All the buds and bells of May, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 

All the heaped Autumn's wealth. 

With a still, mysterious stealth : 

She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup. 

And thou shalt quaff it : — thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest-carols clear; 

Rustle of the reaped corn ; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn : 

And, in the same moment — hark ! 

Tis the early April lark, 

Or the rooks, with busy caw. 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 

The daisy and the marigold ; 

White-plumed lilies, and the first 

Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 

Shaded hyacinth, alway 

Sapphire-queen of the mid-May ; 

And every leaf, and eveiy flower 

Pearled with the self-same shower. 

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 

Meagre from its celled sleep ; 

20 



306 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And tlie snake all winter-tliin 
Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 
Freckled nest-eggs tlion shalt see 
Hatching in tlie liawthorn-tree, 
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
Then the hurry and alarm 
Wlien the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 
Acorns ripe down-pattering 
While the autumn breezes sing. 

Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Everything is spoilt by use : 
Where's the cheek that doth not fade 
Too much gazed at ? Where's the maid 
Whose lip mature is ever new? 
Where's the eye, however blue, 
Doth not weary ? Where's the face 
One would meet in every place ? 
Where's the voice, however soft, 
One would hear so very oft ? 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
Let, then, winged fancy find 
Thee a mistress to thy mind : 
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter. 
Ere the God of Torment taught her 
How to frown and how to chide ; 
With a waist and with a side 
White as Hebe's, when her zone 
Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
Fell her kirtle to her feet, 
While she held the goblet sweet, 
And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 
Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 



1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Quickly break her prison-string, 
And such joys as these she'll bring. — 
Let the winged Fancy roam, 
Pleasure never is at home. 



307 



ODE. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Have ye souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new ? 
Yes, and those of heaven commune 
With the spheres of sun and moon ; 
With the noise of fountains wondrous, 
And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ; 
Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not ; 
Where the nightingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing, 
But divine melodious truth ; 
Philosophic numbers smooth ; 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 



308 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Thus ye live on liigli, and then 
On the earth ye Uve again ; 
And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us, here, the way to find you, 
"Where your other souls are joying, 
!Never slumbered, never cloying. 
Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week ; 
Of their sorrows and delights ; 
Of their passions and their spites ; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
"What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day. 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Ye have souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new ! 



TO AUTUMN. 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ; 
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees. 

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 

With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, 
And still more, later flowers for the bees. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



309 



Until tliey think warm days will never cease, 

For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ; 
And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where are they ? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day. 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 

Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 



ODE ON MELAN'CHOLY. 



No, no ! go not to Lethe, neither twist 

Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ; 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed 

"By nightshade, ruby grape of Prosperine ; 



310 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 

^or let tlie beetle, nor the deatli-moth be 
Your mournful Psyclie, nor the downy owl 
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries ; 

For shade to shade will come too drowsily, 
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 

But when the melancholy fit shall fall 

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, 
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, 

And hides the green hill in an April shroud ; 
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. 

Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, 
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; 
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, 

Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, 
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. 

She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die ; 

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh. 

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips : 
Ay, in the very temple of Delight 

Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine. 

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous 
tongue 
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine : 
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, 
And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ^^^ 



LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN. 

Souls of poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host's Canary wine ? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison ? O generous food ! 
Drest as though hold Rohin Hood 
Would, with his maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story, — 
Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneath a new old-sign 
Sipping beverage divine. 
And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 

Souls of poets dead and gone. 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 



312 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

ROBEST HOOD. 

' TO A FRIEND. 

!N'o ! those days are gone away, 
And their hours are old and gray, 
And their minutes huried all 
Under the down-trodden pall 
Of the leaves of many j^ears : 
Many times have Winter's shears, 
Frozen I*Torth, and chilling East, 
Sounded tempests to the feast. 
Of the forest's whispering fleeces, 
Smce men knew nor rent nor leases. 

ISTo, the bugle sounds no more, 
And the twanging bow no more, 
Silent is the ivory shrill 
Past the heath and up the hill ; 
There is no mid-forest laugh. 
Where lone Echo gives the half 
To some wight, amazed to hear 
Jesting, deep in forest drear. 

On the fairest time of June 
You may go, with sun or moon, 
Or the seven stars to light you, 
Or the polar ray to right you ; 
But you never may behold 
Little John, or Robin bold : 
Never one, of all the clan. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Thrumming on an empty can, 
Some old hunting ditty, while 
He doth his green way heguile 
To fair hostess Merriment, 
Down heside the pasture Trent ; 
For he left the merry tale. 
Messenger for spicy ale. 

Gone, the merry morris din ; 
Gone, the song of Gamelyn ; 
Gone, the tough-helted outlaw 
Idling in the " grene shawe ;" 
All are gone away and past ! 
And if Eobin should be cast 
Sudden from his tufted grave. 
And if Marian should have 
Once again her forest days, 
She would weep, and he would craze : 
He would swear, for all his oaks. 
Fallen beneath the dock-yard strokes. 
Have rotted on the briny seas ; 
She would weep that her wild bees 
Sang not to her — strange ! that honey 
Can't be got without hard money ! 

So it is ; yet let us sing 
Honor to the old bow-string ! 
Honor to the bugle-horn ! 
Honor to the woods unshorn ! 
Honor to the Lincoln green ! 
Honor to the archer keen ! 
Honor to tight Little John, 
And the horse he rode upon ! 



313 



314 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Honor to bold Robin Hood, 
Sleeping in the underwood ! 
Honor to Maid Marian, 
And to all the Sherwood clan ! 
Though their days have hurried by 
Let us two a burden try. 



SLEEP AND POETRY. 

As I lay in my bed, slepe full unmete 

Was unto me, but why that I ne might 

Rest t ne wist, for there n' as erthly wight 

(As I suppose) had more of hertis ese 

Than I, for I n' ad sicknesse nor disese. — Chaucer. 

"What is more gentle than a wind in summer ? 
What is more soothing than the pretty hummer 
That stays one moment in an open flower, 
And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower ? 
What is more trancjuil than a musk-rose blowing 
In a green island, far from all men's knowing ? 
More healthful than the leafiness of dales ? 
More secret than a nest of nightingales ? 
More serene than Cordelia's countenance ? 
More fall of visions than a high romance ? 
What, but thee. Sleep ? Soft closer of our eyes ? 
Low murmurer of tender lullabies ! 
Light hoverer around our happy pillows! 
Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows ! 
Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses ! 
Most happy listener ! when the morning blesses 
Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes 
That glance so brightly at the new sunrise. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



315 



But what is higher beyond thought than thee ? 
Fresher than berries of a mountain tree ? 
More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal. 
Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle ? 
What is it ? And to what shall I compare it ? 
It has a glory, and nought else can share it : 
The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy, 
Chasing away all worldliness and folly : 
Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder; 
Or the low rumblings earth's regions under ; 
And sometimes like a gentle whispering 
Of all the secrets of some wondrous thing 
That breathes about us in the vacant air ; 
So that we look around with prying stare, 
Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning ; 
And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning ; 
To see the laurel-wreath on high suspended. 
That is to crown our name when life is ended. 
Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice. 
And from the heart upsprings, rejoice ! rejoice ! 
Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things. 
And die away in ardent mutterings. 

ITo one who once the glorious sun has seen. 
And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean 
For his great Maker's presence, but must know 
What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow : 
Therefore no insult will I give his spirit. 
By telling what he sees from native merit. 

Poesy ! for thee I hold my pen. 
That am not yet a glorious denizen 
Of thy wide heaven— should I rather kneel 
Upon some mountain-top until I feel 



!16 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A glowing splendor round about me liung, 

And echo back tlie voice of tliine own tongue ? 

Poesy ! for thee I grasp my pen, 

That am not yet a glorious denizen 

Of thy wide heaven ; yet, to my ardent prayer, 

Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air. 

Smoothed for intoxication by the breath 

Of flowering bays, that I may die a death 

Of luxury, and my young spirit follow 

The morning sunbeams to the great Apollo, 

Like a fresh sacrifice ; or, if I can bear 

The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring me to the fair 

Visions of all places : a bowery nook 

Will be elysium — an eternal book 

Whence I may copy many a lovely saying 

About the leaves, and flowers — about the playing 

Of nymphs in woods, and fountains ; and the shade 

Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid ; 

And many a verse from so strange influence 

That we must ever wonder how, and Avhence 

It came. Also imaginings will hover 

Round my fireside, and haply there discover 

Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander 

In happy silence, like the clear Meander 

Through its lone vales ; and where I found a spot 

Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot. 

Or a green hill o'erspread with chequered dress 

Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness, 

"Write on my tablets all that was permitted, 

All that was for our human senses fitted. 

Then the events of this wide world I'd seize 

Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease 

Till at its shoulders it should proudly see 

Wings to find out an immortality. 




'do m?o sw<;et /oCsses rror/iy averUd raa^. - 



31» MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Another will entice me on, and on, 

Througli almond blossoms and ricli cinnamon ; 

Till in the bosom of a leafy world 

We rest in silence, like two gems upcurled 

In the recesses of a pearly shell. 

And can I ever bid these joys farewell ? 
Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life. 
Where I may find the agonies, the strife 
Of human hearts : for lo ! I see afar, 
O'ersailing the blue cragginess, a car 
And steeds with streamy manes — the charioteer 
Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear : 
And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly 
Along a huge cloud's ridge ; and now with sprightly 
Wheel downward come they into fresher skies, 
Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes. 
Still downward with caj)acious whirl they glide ; 
And now I see them on a green hillside 
In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. 
The charioteer with wondrous gesture talks 
To the trees and mountains ; and there soon appear 
Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear, 
Passing along before a dusky space 
Made by some mighty oaks : as they would chase 
Some ever-fleeting music, on they sweep. 
Lo ! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep ; 
Some with upholden hand and mouth severe ; 
Some with their faces muffled to the ear 
Between their arms ; some clear in youthful bloom. 
Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom ; 
Some looking back, and some with upward gaze ; 
Yes, thousands in a thousand difterent ways 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Flit onward — now a lovely wreath of girls 
Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls ; 
And now broad wings. Most awfully intent 
The driver of those steeds is forward bent, 
And seems to listen : that I might know 
All that he writes with such a hurrying glow ! 

The visions all are fled — the car is fled 
Into the light of heaven, and in their stead 
A sense of real things comes doubly strong, 
And, like a muddy stream, would bear along 
My soul to nothingness : but I will strive 
Against all doubtings, and will keep alive 
The thought of that same chariot, and the strange 
Journey it went. 

Is there so small a range 
In the present strength of manhood, that the high 
Imagination cannot freely fly 
As she was wont of old ? prepare her steeds. 
Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds 
Upon the clouds ? Has she not shown us all ? 
From the clear space of ether, to the small 
Breath of new buds unfolding ? From the meaning 
Of Jove's large eyebrow, to the tender greening 
Of April meadows ? here her altar shone, 
E'en in this isle ; and who could paragon 
The fervid choir that lifted up a noise 
Of harmony, to where it aye will poise 
Its mighty self of convoluting sound. 
Huge as a planet, and like that roll round. 
Eternally around a dizzy void ? 
Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloyed 
With honors ; nor had any other care 
Than to sing out and soothe their wavy hair. 



319 



320 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Could all this be forgotten ? Yes, a schism 
Nurtured by foppery and barbarism, 
Made great Apollo blusli for tins his land. 
Men were thought wise who could not understand 
Ilis glories : with a puling infant's force 
They swayed about upon a rocking-horse, 
And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal-souled ! 
The winds of heaven blew, the ocean rolled 
^ Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The blue 
Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 
Of summer night collected still to make 
The morning precious : Beauty was awake ! 
Why were ye not awake ? But ye were dead 
To things ye knew not of, — were closely wed 
To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 
And compass vile : so that ye taught a school 
Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit. 
Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, 
Their verses tallied. Easy was the task : 
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 
Of Poesy. Bl-fated, impious race ! 
That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face. 
And did not know it, — no, they went about, 
Holding a poor, decrepit standard out. 
Marked with most flimsy mottoes, and in large 
The name of one Boileau ! 

ye whose charge 
It is to hover round our pleasant hills ! 
Whose congregated majesty so fills 
My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace 
Your hallowed names, in this unholy place, 
So near those common folk ; did not their shames 
Affright you ? Did our old lamenting Thames 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 321 

Deliglit yon ? did ye never cluster ronnd 

Delicions Avon, with a monrnful sound, 

And weep ? Or did ye wholly bid adieu 

To regions where no more the laurel grew ? 

Or did ye stay to give a welcoming 

To some lone spirits who could proudly sing 

Their youth away, and die ? 'Twas even so : 

But let me think away those times of woe : 

Now 'tis a fairer season ; ye have breathed 

Rich benedictions o'er us ; ye have wreathed 

Fresh garlands : for sweet music has been heard 

In many places ; some has been upstirred 

From out its crystal dwelling in a lake, 

By a swan's ebon bill ; from a thick brake, 

N^ested and quiet in a valley mild, 

Bubbles a pipe ; fine sounds are floating wild 

About the earth : happy are ye and glad. 

These things are, doubtless : yet in truth we've had 

Strange thunders from the potency of song ; 

Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong. 

From majesty : but in clear truth the themes 

Are ugly cubs, the Poets' Polyphemes 

Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower 

Of light is poesy ; 'tis the supreme of power ; 

'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm, 

The very archings of her eyelids charm 

A thousand willing agents to obey, 

And still she governs with the mildest sway : 

But strength alone though of the Muses born 

Is like a fallen angel : trees uptorn. 

Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres 

Delight it ; for it feeds upon the burrs 

And thorns of life ; forgetting the great end 

21 



322 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Of poesy, that it should be a friend 

To soothe the cares, and Uft the thoughts of man. 

Yet I rejoice ; a myrtle fairer than 
E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds 
Lifts its sweet heap into the air, and feeds 
A silent space with ever-sprouting green. 
All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen. 
Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, 
Kibble the little cupped flowers and sing. 
Then let us clear away the choking thorns 
From round its gentle stem ; let the young fawns 
Yeaned in after-times, when we are flown, 
Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown 
With simple flowers : let there nothing be 
More boisterous than a lover's bended knee ; 
ISTought more ungentle than the placid look 
Of one who leans upon a closed book ; 
ISTought more untranquil than the grassy slopes 
Between two hills. All hail, delightful hopes ! 
As she was wont, th' imagination 
Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, 
And they shall be accounted poet kings 
Who simply tell the most heart-easing things. 
O may these joys be ripe before I die ! 

Will not some say that I presumptuously 
Have spoken ? that from hastening disgrace 
'Twere better far to hide my foolish face ? 
That whining boyhood should with reverence bow 
Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach me ? How ! 
If I do hide myself, it sure shall be 
In the very fane, the light of Poesy : 



MISCELLAiVEOUS POEMS. 



S23 



If I do fall, at least I will be laid 

Beneath the silence of a poplar shade ; 

And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven ; 

And there shall be a kind memorial graven. 

But off, Despondence ! miserable bane ! 

They should not know thee, who athirst to gain 

A noble end, are thirsty every hour. 

"What though I am not wealthy in the dower 

Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not know 

The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow 

Hither and thither all the changing thoughts 

Of man : though no great ministering reason sorts 

Out the dark mysteries of human souls 

To clear conceiving : yet there ever rolls 

A vast idea before me, and I glean 

Therefrom my liberty ; thence too I've seen 

The end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clear 

As anything most true ; as that the year 

Is made of the four seasons — manifest 

As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest, 

Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I 

Be but the essence of deformity, 

A coward, did my very eyelids wink 

At speaking out what I have dared Vo think. 

Ah ! rather let me like a madman run 

Over some precipice ; let the hot sun 

Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down 

Convulsed and headlong ? Stay ! an inward frown 

Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile. 

An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle, 

Spreads awfully before me. How much toil ! 

How many days ! what desperate turmoil ! 

Ere I can have explored its widen esses. 

Ah, what a task ! upon my bended knees, 



324 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

I could unsay those — no, impossible ! 
Impossible ! 

For sweet relief I'll dwell 
On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay- 
Begun in gentleness die so away. 
E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades : 
I turn full-hearted to the friendly aids 
That smooth the path of honor ; brotherhood, 
And friendliness, the nurse of mutual good. 
The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet 
Into the brain ere one can think upon it ; 
The silence when some rhymes are coming out ; 
And when they're come, the very pleasant rout : 
The message certain to be done to-morrow. 
'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow 
Some precious book from out its snug retreat, 
To cluster round it when we next shall meet. 
Scarce can I scribble on ; for lovely airs 
Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs ; 
Many delights of that glad day recalling. 
When first my senses caught their tender falling. 
And with these airs come forms of elegance 
Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance, 
Careless, and grand — fingers soft and round 
Parting luxuriant curls ; and the swift bound 
Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye 
Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. 
Thus I remember all the pleasant flow 
Of words at opening a portfolio. 

Things such as these are ever harbingers 
To trains of peaceful images : the stirs 
Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes ; 
A linnet starting all about the bushes : 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 325 

A butterfly, with golden wings broad-parted, 

Nestling a rose, convulsed as though it smarted 

"With over-pleasure — many, many more. 

Might I indulge at large in all my store 

Of luxuries : yet I must not forget 

Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet : 

For what there may be worthy in these rhymes 

I partly owe to him : and thus, the chimes 

Of friendly voices had just given place 

To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace 

The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. 

It was a poet's house who keeps the keys 

Of pleasure's temple^round about were hung 

The glorious features of the bards who sung 

In other ages — cold and sacred busts 

Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts 

To clear Futurity his darling fame ! 

Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim 

At swelling apples with a frisky leap 

And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap 

Of vine-leaves. Then there rose to view a fane 

Of liney marble, and thereto a train 

Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward : 

One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward 

The dazzling sunrise : two sisters sweet 

Bending their graceful figures till they meet 

Over the trippings of a little child : 

And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild 

Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. 

See, in another picture, n^miphs are wiping 

Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs ; 

A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims 

At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion 

With the subsiding crystal : as when ocean 



326 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er 
Its rocky marge, and balances once more 
The patient weeds ; that now unshent by foam 
Feel all about their undulating home. 
Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down 
At nothing ; just as though the earnest frown 
Of over-thinking had that moment gone 
From off her brow, and left her all alone. 

Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes, 
As if he always listened to the sighs 
Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko's, worn 
By horrid suffrance — mightily forlorn. 

Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green, 
Starts at the sight of Laura ; nor can wean 
His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they ! 
For over them was seen a free display 
Of outspread wings, and from between them shone 
The face of Poesy : from off her throne 
She overlooked things that I scarce could tell, 
The very sense of where I was might well 
Keep sleep aloof : but more than that there came 
Thought after thought to nourish up the flame 
Within my breast ; so that the morning light 
Surprised me even from a sleepless night ; 
And up I rose refreshed, and glad, and gay, 
Resolving to begin that very day 
These lines ; and howsoever they be done, 
I leave them as a father does his son. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



STAIs^ZAS. 

In a drear-niglitecl December, 

Too happy, liappy tree, 

Thy branches ne'er remember 

Then* green felicity : 

The north cannot undo them, 

"With a sleety whistle through them ; 

Kor frozen tliawings glue them 

From budding at the prime. 

In a drear-nighted December, 
Too happy, happy brook. 
Thy bubblings ne'er remember 
Apollo's summer look ; 
But with a sweet forgetting, 
They stay their crystal fretting, 
Never, never petting 
About the frozen time. 

Ah ! would 'twere so with many 
A gentle girl and boy ! 
But were there ever any 
"Writhed not at passed joy ? 
To know the change and feel it. 
When there is none to heal it, 
Nor numbed sense to steal it, 
"Was never said in rhyme. 



327 



EPISTLES. 



Among: the rest a shepherd (though but young' 
Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill 
His few yeeres could, began to fill his quill. 

Britannia's Pastorals. — Browse. 



TO GEORGE FELTOK MATIIEW. 

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse helong, 

And douhly sweet a brotherhood in song ; 

Nor can remembrance, Mathew ! bring to view 

A fate more pleasing, a delight more true 

Than that in which the brother poets joyed, 

Who, with combined powers, their wit employed 

To raise a trophy to the drama's muses. 

The thought of this great partnership diituses 

Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling 

Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing. 

Too partial friend ! fain would I follow thee 

Past each horizon of fine poesy ; 

Fain would I echo back each pleasant note 

As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float 

'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted. 

Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted : 

But 'tis impossible ; far different cares 

Beckon me sternly from soft "Lydian airs," 

And hold my faculties so long in thrall. 

That I am oft in doubt whether at all 



EPISTLES. 



329 



I shall again see Plioebiis in the morning : 
Or flushed Aurora in the roseate dawning ! 
Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream ; 
Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam ; 
Or again witness what with thee I've seen, 
The dew by fairy feet swept from the green, 
After a night of some quaint jubilee 
Which every elf and fay had come to see : 
When bright processions took their airy march 
Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch. 

But might I now each passing moment give 
To the coy Muse, with me she would not live 
In this dark city, nor would condescend 
'Mid contradictions her delights to lend. 
Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind, 
Ah ! surely it must be whene'er I find 
Some flowery spot, sequestered, wild, romantic, 
That often must have seen a poet frantic ; 
Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing. 
And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing ; 
Where the dark-leaved laburnum's drooping clusters 
Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres. 
And intertwined the cassia's arms unite. 
With its own drooping buds, but very white. 
Where on one side are covert branches hung, 
'Mong which the nightingales have always sung 
In leafy quiet ; where to pry, aloof 
Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof. 
Would be to find where violet beds were nestling. 
And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling. 
There must be too a ruin dark and gloomy. 
To say " Joy not too much in all that's bloomy." 



330 EPISTLES. 

Yet tills is vain — Mathew ! lend tliy aid 
To find a place where I may greet the maid — 
"Where we may soft humanity put on, 
And sit, and rhyme, and think on Chatterton ; 
And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him 
Four laurelled spirits, heavenward to entreat him. 
With reverence would we speak of all the sages 
Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages : 
And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness, 
And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness 
To those who strove with the bright golden wing 
Of genius, to flap away each sting 
Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell 
Of those who in the cause of freedom fell ; 
Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell ; 
Of him whose name to every heart's a solace, 
High-minded and unbending William Wallace. 
While to the rugged Korth our musing turns. 
We well might drop a tear for him and Burns. 
Felton ! without incitements such as these, 
How vain for me the niggard Muse to tease ! 
For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace, 
And make " a sunshine in a shady place :" 
For thou wast once a flow'ret blooming wild. 
Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefiled. 
Whence gush the streams of song : in happy hour 
Came chaste Diana from her shady bower. 
Just as the sun was from the east uprising ; 
And, as for him some gift she was devising. 
Beheld thee, plucked thee, cast thee in the stream 
To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam. 
I marvel much that thou hast never told 
How, from a flower, into a fish of gold 



EPISTLES. 



331 



Apollo clianged thee : how thou next didst seem 
A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream ; 
And when thou first didst in that mirror trace 
The placid features of a human face ; 
That thou hast never told thy travels strange, 
And all the wonders of the mazy range 
O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands ; 
Kissing thy daily food from ITaiads' pearly hands. 

November, 1815. 



TO MY BROTHER GEORGE. 

Full many a dreary hour have I past. 

My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast 

With heaviness ; in seasons when I've thought 

No sphery strains by me could e'er be caught 

From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze 

On the tar depth where sheeted lightning plays ; 

Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely. 

Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely : 

That I should never hear Apollo's song. 

Though feathery clouds were floating all along 

The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, 

The golden lyre itself were dimly seen : 

That the still murmur of the honey-bee 

Would never teach a rural song to me : 

That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting 

Would never make a lay of mine enchanting. 

Or warm my breast with ardor to unfold 

Some tale of love and arms in time of old. 



332 EPISTLES. 

But there are times, when those that love the bay, 
Fly from all sorrowing far, far away ; 
A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see 
In water, earth, or air, but poesy. 
It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it, 
(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,) 
That when a Poet is in such a trance. 
In air he sees white coursers paw and prance, 
Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel, 
Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel ; 
And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call. 
Is the swift opening of their wide portal, 
When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear. 
Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear, 
When these enchanted portals open wide, 
And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide. 
The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls. 
And view the glory of their festivals : 
Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem 
Fit for the silvering of a seraph's dream ; 
Their rich brimmed goblets, that incessant run, 
Lilce the bright spots that move about the sun ; 
And when upheld, the wine from each bright jar 
Pours with the lustre of a falling star. 
Yet further oif are dimly seen their bowers, 
Of which no mortal eye can reach the flowers ; 
And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows 
'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose. 
All that's revealed from that far seat of blisses, 
Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses. 
As gracefully descending, light and thin. 
Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin. 
When he upswimmeth from the coral caves. 
And sports with half his tail above the waves. 



EPISTLES. 



333 



Tlicse wonders strange he sees, and many more, 
Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore ; 
Should he upon an evening ramble fare 
"With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, 
Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue. 
With all its diamonds trembling through and through ? 
Or the coy moon, when in the waviness 
Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, 
And staidly paces higher up, and higher. 
Like a sweet nun in holiday attire ? 
Ah, yes ! much more would start into his sight — 
The revelries and mysteries of night : 
And should I ever see them, I will tell you 
Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you. 

These are the living pleasures of the bard : 
But richer far posterity's award. 
What does he murmur with his latest breath. 
While his proud eye looks through the film of death ? 
" Wliat though I leave this dull and earthly mould. 
Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold 
With after-times. — The patriot shall feel 
My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel; 
Or in the senate thunder out my numbers. 
To startle princes from their easy slumbers. 
The sage will mingle with each moral theme 
My happy thoughts sententious : he will teem 
With lofty periods when my verses fire him. 
And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him. 
Lays have I left of such a dear delight 
That maids will sing them on their bridal-night. 
Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, 
When they have tired their gentle limbs with play, 



334 



EPISTLES. 



And formed a snowy circle on the grass, 

And placed in midst of all that lovely lass 

"Who chosen is their queen, — with her fine head 

Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red : 

For there the lily and the musk-rose sighing, 

Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying : 

Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, 

A bunch of violets full blown, and double. 

Serenely sleep : — she from a casket takes 

A little book, — and then a joy awakes 

About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries. 

And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes : 

For she's to read a tale of hopes and fears ; 

One that I fostered in my youthful years : 

The pearls that on each glistening circlet sleep. 

Gush ever and anon with silent creep. 

Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest 

Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast. 

Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair Avorld, adieu ! 

Thy dales and hills are fading from my view : 

Swiftly I mount upon wide-spreading pinions. 

Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions. 

Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air. 

That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair, 

And warm thy sons !" Ah, my dear friend and brother, 

Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother, 

For tasting joys like these, sure I should be 

Happier, and dearer to society. 

At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain 

"Wlien some bright thought has darted through my brain : 

Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure 

Than if I had brought to light a hidden treasure. 

As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them, 

I feel delighted, still, that you should read them. 



EPISTLES. 



335 



Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment. 

Stretched on the grass at my best loved employment 

Of scribbling lines for yon. These things I thought 

Wliile, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught. 

Even now I am pillowed on a bed of flowers 

That crowns a lofty clift* which proudly towers 

Above the ocean waves. The stalks and blades 

Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades. 

On one side is a field of drooping oats, 

Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats, 

So pert and useless, that they bring to mind, 

The scarlet coats that pester human-kind. 

And on the other side outspread, is seen 

Ocean's blue mantle, streaked with purple and green ; 

]Si ow 'tis I see a canvassed ship, and now 

Mark the bright silver curling round her prow. 

I see the lark down drooping to his nest, 

And the broad-winged sea-gull never at rest ; 

For when no more he spreads his feathers free. 

His breast is dancing on the restless sea. 

Kow I direct my eyes into the west. 

Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest : 

"VVhy westward turn ? 'Twas but to say adieu ! 

'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you ! 

August, 1816. 



TO CHAELES COWDEI^ CLARKE. 

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning. 

And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning ; 

He slants his neck beneath the waters bright 

So silently it seems a beam of light 



336 EPISTLES. 

Come from the galaxy : anon he sports, — 
"With outspread wings the IS^aiad Zephyr courts, 
Or ruffles all the surface of the lake 
In striving from its crystal face to take 
Some diamond water-drops, and them to treasure 
In milky nest, and sip them oil' at leisure. 
But not a moment can he there insure them, 
Nor to such downy rest can he allure them ; 
For down they rush as though they would be free, 
And drop like hours into eternity. 
Just like that bird am I in loss of time. 
Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme; 
"With shattered boat, oar snapt, and canvas rent, 
I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent ; 
Still scooping up the water with my fingers. 
In which a trembling diamond never lingers. 

By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see 
Why I have never penned a line to thee : 
Because my thoughts were never free and clear. 
And little fit to please a classic ear ; 
Because my wine was of too poor a savor 
For one whose palate gladdens in the flavor 
Of sparkling Helicon : — small good it were 
To take him to a desert rude and bare, 
Who had on Baiae's shore reclined at ease, 
Wliile Tasso's page was floating in a breeze 
That gave soft music from Armida's bowers. 
Mingled with fragrance fi^om her rarest flowers : 
Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream 
Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream ; 
Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook. 
And lovely Una in a leafy nook, 
And Archimago leaning o'er his book : 



EPISTLES. 337 

"WTio had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen, 

From silvery ripple, up to beauty's queen ; 

From the sequestered haunts of gay Titania, 

To the blue dwelling of divine Urania : 

One, who of late had ta'en sweet forest walks 

With him who elegantly chats and talks — 

The wronged Libertas — who has told you stories 

Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories ; 

Of troops chivalrous passing through a city, 

And tearful ladies made for love and pity : 

With many else which I have never known. 

Thus have I thought ; and days on days have flown 

Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still 

For you to try my dull, unlearned quill. 

Nor should I now, but that I've known you long ; 

That you first taught me all the sweets of song : 

The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine : 

What swelled with pathos, and what right divine : 

Spenserian vowels that elope with ease. 

And float along like birds o'er summer seas : 

Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness : 

Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness. 

Wlio read for me the sonnet swelling loudly 

Up to its climax, and then dying proudly ? 

Who found for me the grandeur of the ode, 

Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load ? 

Who let me taste that more than cordial dram. 

The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram ? 

Showed me that epic was of all the king. 

Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's ring ? 

You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty, 

And pointed out the patriot's stern duty ; 

The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell ; 

The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell 



338 



EPISTLES. 



Upon a tyrant's head. Ali ! had I never seen, 

Or known your kindness, what might I have been ? 

What my enjoyments in my youthful years, 

Bereft of all that now my life endears ? 

And can I e'er these benefits forget? 

And can I e'er repay the friendly debt ? 

]^o, doubly no ; — ^j^et should these rhymings please, 

I shall roll on the grass with twofold ease ; 

For I have long time been my fancy feeding 

With hopes that you would one day think the reading 

Of my rough verses not an hour misspent ; 

Should it e'er be so, what a rich content ! 

Some weeks have passed since last I saw the spires 

In lucent Thames reflected : — warm desires 

To see the sun o'er-peep the eastern dimness. 

And morning-shadows streaking into slimness 

Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water ; 

To mark the time as they grow broad and shorter ; 

To feel the air that plays about the hills. 

And sips its freshness from the little rills ; 

To see high, golden corn wave in the light 

When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night, 

And peers among the cloudlets, jet and white, 

As though she were reclining in a bed 

Of bean-blossoms, in heaven freshly shed. 

No sooner had I stepped into these pleasures. 

Than I began to think of rhymes and measures ; 

The air that floated by me seemed to say 

" Write ! thou wilt never have a better day." 

And so I did. When many lines I'd written, 

Though with their grace I was not oversmitten. 

Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd better 

Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter. 



EPISTLES. 



339 



Such an attempt required an inspiration 

Of a peculiar sort, — a consummation ; — 

Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been 

Verses from which the soul would never ween ; 

But many days have past since last my heart 

Was warmed luxuriously by divine Mozart ; 

By Arne delighted, or by Handel maddened ; 

Or by the song of Erin pierced and saddened : 

What time you were before the music sitting, 

And the rich notes to each sensation fitting. 

Since I have walked with you through shady lanes 

That freshly terminate in open plains, 

And revelled in a chat that ceased not, 

When, at nightfall, among your books we got : 

JiTo, nor when supper came, nor after that, — 

Nor when reluctantly I took my hat ; 

No, nor till cordially you shook my hand 

Midway between our homes : — your accents bland 

Still sounded in my ears, when I no more 

Could hear your footsteps touch the gravelly floor. 

Sometimes I lost them, and then found again ; 

You changed the foot-path for the grassy plain. 

In those still moments I have wished you joys 

That well you know to honor :— " Life's very toys 

With him," said I, " will take a pleasant charm; 

It cannot be that aught will work him harm." 

These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might : — 

Again I shake your hand,— friend Charles, good night. 

September, 1816. 



SONNETS. 



TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME SOME ROSES. 

As late I rambled in the happy fields, 

"What time the sl^ylark shades the tremulous dew 
From his lush clover covert ; — ^when anew 
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields ; 
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, 

A fresh-blown musk-rose ; 'twas the first that threw 
Its sweets upon the summer : graceful it grew 
As is the wand that Queen Titania wields. 
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy, 

I thought the garden-rose it far excelled ; 
But when, Wells ! thy roses came to me, 

My sense with their deliciousness was spelled : 
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea 
Whispered of peace, and truth, and friendliness un- 
quelled. 

II. 

TO MY" BROTHER GEORGE. 

Many the wonders I this day have seen : 

The sun, when first he kissed away the tears 
That filled the eyes of Morn ; — the laurelled peers 

Who from the feathery gold of evening lean ; — 



SONNETS. 841 

The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green, 

Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, — 
Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears 

Must think on what will be, and what has been. 

E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write, 
Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping 

So scantly, that it seems her bridal night, 
And she her half-discovered revels keeping. 

But what, without the social thought of thee, 

"Would be the wonders of the sky and sea ? 



TO 



Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs 
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell, 
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart ; so well 

"Would passion arm me for the enterprise : 

But ah ! I am no knight whose foeman dies ; 
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell ; 
I am no happy shepherd of the dell 

"Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes. 

Yet must I doat upon thee, — call thee sweet. 
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honeyed roses 
"Wlien steeped in dew rich to intoxication. 

Ah ! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet. 
And when the moon her pallid face discloses, 
I'll gather some by spells, and incantation. 



O Solitude ! if I must with thee dwell. 
Let it not be among the jumbled heap 
Of murky buildings : climb with me the steep,- 

Nature's observatory — whence the dell. 



S42 SONNETS. 

In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, 
May seem a span ; let me tliy vigils keep 
'Mongst boughs pavilioned, where the deer's swift 
leap 

Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell. 
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, 

fYet the sweet converse of an innocent mindy 
Iiose words are images of thoughts refined, / 
', Is my soul's pleasure ; ■ and it sure must be 
Almost the highest bliss of human kind, 
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. 



How many bards gild the lapses of time ! 

A few of them have ever been the food 

Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood 
Over their beauties, earthly or sublime : 
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, 

These will in throngs before my mind intrude : 

But no confusion, no disturbance rude 
Do they occasion ; 'tis a pleasing chime. 
So the unnumbered sounds that evening store ; 

The songs of birds — the whispering of the leaves- 
The voice of waters — the great bell that heaves 

With solemn sound, — and thousand others more. 
The distance of recognizance bereaves. 

Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. 



TO G. A. w. 

Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance ! 
In what diviner moments of the day 



SONNETS. 343 

Art thou most lovely ? when gone far astray 
Into the lab^a-inths of sweet utterance ? 
Or when serenely wandering in a trance 

Of sober thought ? Or when starting away, 

With careless robe to meet the morning ray, 
Thou sparest the flowers in thy mazy dance ? 
Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly, 

And so remain, because thou listenest : 
But thou to please wert nurtured so completely 

That I can never tell what mood is best, 
I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly 

Trips it before Apollo than the rest. 



WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON. 

What though, for showing truth to flattered state. 
Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he. 
In his immortal spirit, been as free 

As the sky-searching lark, and as elate. 

Minion of grandeur ! think you he did wait? 
Think you he nought but prison walls did see, 
Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key ? 

Ah, no ! far happier, nobler was his fate ! 

In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair. 
Culling enchanted flowers ; and he flew 

With daring Milton through the fields of air : 
To regions of his own his genius true 

Took happy flights. Wlio shall his fame impair 

Wlien thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew ! 



844 



SONNETS. 



TO MY BROTHER. 



Small, busy flames play tlirougli the fresh-laid coals, 

And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep 

Like whispers of the household gods that keep 
A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls. 
And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, 

Your eyes are fixed, as in poetic sleep. 

Upon the lore so voluble and deep. 
That aye at fall of night our care condoles. 
This is your birth-day, Tom, and I rejoice 

That thus it passes smoothly, quietly : 
Many such eves of gently whispering noise 

May we together pass, and calmly try 
"What are this world's true joys, — ere the great Voice 

From its fair face shall bid our spirits fly. 



ADDRESSED TO HAYDON. 

HiGH-MiNDEDNESS, a jcalousy for good, 

A loving-kindness for the great man's fame. 
Dwells here and there with people of no name. 

In noisome alley, and in pathless wood : 

And where we think the truth least understood, 
Oft may be found a "singleness of aim," 
That ought to frighten into hooded shame 

A money-mongering, pitiable brood. 

How glorious this affection for the cause 
Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly ! 

What when a stout unbending champion awes 
Envy, and malice to their native sty ? 

Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause. 
Proud to behold him in his country's eye. 



346 



SONNETS. 

X. 

ADDRESSED TO THE SAME. 

Great spirits now on earth are sojonrning ; 
He of tlie cloud, the cataract, the lake, 
Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, 

Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing : 

He of the rose, the violet, the spring, 

The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake : 
And lo ! whose steadfastness would never take 

A meaner sound than Kaphael's whispering. 

And other spirits there are standing apart 
Upon the forehead of the age to come ; 

These, these will give the world another heart, 
And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum 

Of mighty workings ? 

Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb. 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 
Round many western islands have I been 

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 

That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne 
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken ; 

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
He stared at the Pacific— and all his men 

Looked at each other with a wild surmise- 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



346 SONNETS. 



ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN EARLY HOUR. 

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean 

On lieaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far ; 
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star. 

Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen 

The silver strings of heavenly harp atween : 
And let there glide by many a pearly car. 
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar, 

And half-discovered wings, and glances keen. 

The while let music wander round my ears. 
And as it reaches each delicious ending. 
Let me write down a line of glorious tone, 

And full of many wonders of the spheres : 
For what a height my spirit is contending ! 
'Tis not content so soon to be alone. 



Keen fitful gusts are whispering here and there 

Among the bushes, half leafless and dry ; 

The stars look very cold about the sky. 
And I have many miles on foot to fare ; 
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air, 

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, 

Or of those silver lamps that burn on high. 
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair : 
For I am brimful of the friendliness 

That in a little cottage I have found ; 
Of fair-haired Milton's eloquent distress. 

And all his love for gentle Lycid' drowned ; 
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress. 

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crowned. 



SONNETS. 347 



To one who lias been long in city pent, 
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 
And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer 

Fnll in the smile of the blue firmament. 

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content. 
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 

And gentle tale of love and languishment ? 

Returning home at evening, with an ear 
Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, 
He mourns that day so soon has glided by : 
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
That falls through the clear ether silently. 



ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. 

The poetry of earth is never dead : 

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead ; 

That is the grasshopper's — ^he takes the lead 
In summer luxury, — he has never done 
With his delights, for when tired out with fun, 

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 

The poetry of earth is ceasing never : 

On a lone winter evening, when the frost 

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills 

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever. 
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost. 

The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 



348 



SONNETS. 



TO KOSCIUSKO. 



Good Kosciusko ! thy great name alone 
Is a full hai'vest whence to reap high feeling ; 
It comes upon us like the glorious pealing 

Of the wide spheres — an everlasting tone. 

And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown, 
The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing, 
Are changed to harmonies, forever stealing 

Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne 

It tells me too, that on a happy day. 

When some good spirit walks upon the earth, 

Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore, 
Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth 

To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away 

To where the great God lives for evermore. 



Happy is England ! I could be content 

To see no other verdure than its own : 

To feel no other breezes than are blown 
Through its tall woods with high romances blent ; 
Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment 

For skies Italian, and an inward groan 

To sit upon an Alp as on a throne. 
And half forget what world or worldling meant. 

Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters ; 

Enough their simple loveliness for me. 
Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging ; 

Yet do I often warmly burn to see 
Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, 

And float with them about the summer waters. 



-rf^'. 




ft/* 





'y:/^y: 



^4f^. 



SONNETS. 



THE HUMAN SEASONS. 



349 



Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; 

There are four seasons in the mind of man : 
He has his lusty spring, when fancy clear 

Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 
He has his Summer, when luxuriously 

Spring's honeyed cud of youthful thought he loves 
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 

Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 

He furleth close ; contented so to look 
On mists in idleness — to let fair things 

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, 
Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 



ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER. 

Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly, 
Down-looking aye, and with a chastened light, 
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white. 
And meekly let your fair hands joined be. 
As if so gentle that ye could not see. 

Untouched, a victim of your beauty bright, 
Sinking away to his young spirit's night. 
Sinking bewildered 'mid the dreary sea: 
'Tis young Leander toiling to his death ; 

Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips 
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile. 

O horrid dream ! see how his body dips 
Dead-heavy ; arms and shoulders gleam awhile 
He's gone ; up bubbles all his amorous breath ! 



350 



SONNETS. 



TO AILSA ROCK. 



Hearken, thoii craggy ocean pyramid ! 

Give answer from tliy voice, the sea-fqwl's screams ! 

When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams ! 
"When, from the sitn, was thy broad forehead hid ? 
How long is't since the mighty power bid 

Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams ? 

Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams ? 
Or when gray clouds are thy cold coverlid? 
Thou answer'st not, for thou art dead asleep ! 

Thy life is but two dead eternities — 

The last in air, the former in the deep ; 

First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies — 
Drowned wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep 

Another cannot wake thy giant size. 



THE END. 



C. SHERMAN, PRINTER. 



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